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Tis  mi(lnip:hf  on  tlio  mountains  brown 
The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down; 
Bhio  roll  the  waters,  bhie  the  sky 
Spreads  hko  an  ocean  hung  on  high. 


Bykon. 


The  Siege  of  CiMnthStanza  X/.— Page  132. 


THE   LIFE  OF   LORD   BYROK 

BY  ALEXANDER  LEI&HTON, 


George  Gobdon  Lobd  Btron  was  descended  of  a  very  ancient 
and  illustrious  family.  The  celebrated  Commodore  Byron,  an 
account  of  whose  shipwrecks  once  delighted  so  much  the  readers 
of  adventures,  was  his  grandfather.  His  father  was  Captain 
Byron,  an  extravagant  and  licentious  man,  who,  after  squander- 
ing his  own  fortune,  married  Miss  Gordon  of  Gight,  in  Aberdeen- 
shire, and  got  with  her  not  only  the  property  to  which  she  was 
heiress,  but  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  all  of  which  be  soon 
spent.  The  poet  was  bom  in  London  on  the  22d  of  January, 
1788,  two  years  after  which  his  mother,  in  consequence  of  the 
death  of  her  husband,  left  England,  and  took  up  her  residence 
at  Aberdeen — a  place  suited  to  her  now  scanty  resources,  which 
were  not  supplemented  by  her  husband's  uncle,  the  then  Lord 
Byron,  a  retired  and  gloomy  man,  of  an  ungenerous  spirit. 

For  eight  years  the  poet  resided  with  his  mother ;  and  here 
began  that  treatment  which,  acting  on  a  generous  but  irritable 
mind,  laid  the  foundation  of  a  character  marked  by  so  many 
virtues,  and  so  many  offences  against  good  taste  and  public 
morals.  His  mother,  whose  life  had  been  soured  by  the  extrava- 
gant conduct  of  her  husband,  acted  towards  the  boy — who  was 
not  only  of  a  weak  bodily  habit,  but  deformed  in  one,  if  not 
both,  of  his  feet— as  if  she  had  predetermined  to  make  his  moral 
nature  of  that  anomalous  character  it  afterwards  exhibited,  the 
means  she  employed  being  indulgence,  not  always  deserved,  and 
severity,  as  seldom  merited.  These  cherished  his  natural  hasti- 
ness of  temper,  as  well  as  pampered  his  proud  wilfulness,  until 
the  one  hastened  to  irascibility,  and  the  other  to  a  selfish  defiance 
of  every  one  about  him.  All  the  good  tendencies  of  his  fine 
nature  were  thus  weakened  and  misdirected,  and  all  the  bad  ones 
were  aggravated  and  deepened.  To  this  was  added  a  constant 
change  of  teachers,  as  well  as  methods  of  teaching,  without  ref- 
erence to  the  abilities  or  inclinations  of  the  boy,  and  the  conse- 
quence resulted  in  an  almost  absolute  indifference  to  all  studies. 

We  have  some  glimpses  of  his  boyhood  while  at  Aberdeen. 
He  was  never  forward  in  his  school  work,  and  was  always  far 
down  in  the  class  at  the  day-school  to  which  he  had  been  sent ; 


-t 


vi  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

but  while  thus  indifferent  to  the  exercises  of  the  head,  he  was 
even  now,  in  his  very  boyhood,  showing  how  strong  was  the 
emotional  element  in  his  nature.  A  deep  impression  was  made 
upon  his  heart  when  no  more  than  eight  years  of  age  by  a  young 
girl  of  the  name  of  Mary  Duff.  So  genuine  had  been  this  early 
love,  that  even  in  1813,  when  he  was  twenty-five  years  of  age,  he 
confesses  that  the  news  of  Mary  Duff's  marriage  was  like  **a 
thunderstroke, — it  nearly  choked  me,  to  the  horror  of  my  mother, 
and  the  astonishment  and  incredulity  of  almost  everybody." 
About  the  same  time,  on  recovering  from  scarlet  fever,  he  was 
sent  for  fresh  air  to  a  farmhouse  near  Ballater.  The  house  has 
become  famous  ;  and  the  bed  where  the  poet  lay  is  still  pointed 
out  as  Byron's  bed.  It  was  here  probably  that  he  was  impressed 
vrith  the  grandeur  of  Highland  scenery  ;  for  a  short  walk  suf- 
ficed to  bring  him  to  dark  Lochnagar,  that  mountain  which  in- 
spired almost  the  earliest,  certainly  the  best,  of  the  early  efforts 
of  his  muse.  It  is  even  said,  in  praise  of  the  overlaid  aspirations 
of  his  better  nature,  that  the  peace  and  innocence  that  reigned 
among  these  grand  displays  of  nature  haunted  him  amidst  the 
fevered  excitement  of  a  conventional,  if  not  dissipated  life.  In 
the  "  Island,"  a  poem  written  not  long  before  his  death,  he  let 
Blip  some  thoughts  which  have  reference  to  these  early  worship- 
pings of  his  better  nature  : 

"  But  'twas  not  all  long  ap:es'  lore,  nor  all 
Their  nature  held  me  in  their  thrilling  thrall ; 
The  infant  rapture  still  survived  the  boy, 
And  Lochnagar  with  Ida  look'd  o'er  Troy." 

His  mother's  regular  system  of  spoiling  continued  till  his 
eleventh  year,  when  the  death  of  his  granduncle  made  him  the 
possessor  of  a  noble  title  and  a  large  property  ;  but  it  did  not 
end  here.  Unfortunately,  the  mother  was  left  by  the  guardians 
to  take  her  own  way  with  the  now  young  lord  ;  and  as  if  his 
good  fortune  had  inflamed  her  desire  to  perfect  the  work  she  had 
80  early  begun,  she  had  recourse  to  new  methods, — one  of  which 
consisted  in  subjecting  him  to  fruitless  operations  for  the  pur- 
pose, no  doubt  well  designed,  of  curing  his  lameness,  but  the 
effect  of  which  was  only  to  sink  deeper  into  his  mind  the  bitter 
regret  of  his  infirmity,  and  to  increase  that  misanthropy  which 
had  been  gradually  rising  out  of  asperity.  It  has  been  even 
said,  we  hope  untruly,  that  his  mother  was  in  the  habit  of 
taunting  him  with  this  unfortunate  deformity,— conduct  so  cruel 
and  gratuitous,  as  to  require  a  better  proof  than  it  has  yet  re- 
ceived. 

On  his  removal  to  an  excellent  private  school  at  Dulwich,  undet 

^ J^ 


-*jda. 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON.  vii 

/ 

Dr.  Glennie,  it  was  very  soon  seen  what  benefit  resulted  from  a  ces- 
sation of  the  mother's  authority,  for  here  he  manifested  much  im- 
provement both  in  temper  and  industry ;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  the  still  constant  interferences  from  home,  the  world  might 
have  been  saved  the  pain  of  seeing  genius  clouded  by  moral 
infirmities.  Even  here,  long  visits  to  home  broke  in  upon  his 
studies,  and  sent  him  back  to  begin  anew  a  course  of  amend- 
ment. 

On  his  next  removal,  to  Harrow,  new  hopes  were  inspired ; 
and  though  he  proved  himself  often  rebellious,  and  a  not  very 
careful  student,  especially  of  the  classics,  he  went  through  a 
great  deal  of  miscellaneous  reading.  Then,  on  all  hands,  he 
was  admired  for  his  generosity,  and  courted  for  his  spirit.  It 
was  in  1803,  while  spending  the  vacation  at  Nottingham,  near 
Newstead,  and  before  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year,  that 
he  met  a  young  lady.  Miss  Chaworth,  the  heiress  of  Annesley, 
an  extensive  estate  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  patrimonial 
mansion.  His  senior  by  two  years,  and  gifted  with  both  beauty 
and  intelligence,  she  was  calculated  to  have  redeemed  him  from 
his  errors  without  abating  the  enthusiasm  of  his  genius ;  but 
the  young  lady,  besides  being  engaged,  saw  nothing  in  him  to 
attract  her,  or  even  stir  her  sympathy.  Instead  of  regarding 
him  as  one  worthy  of  being  a  candidate  for  her  hand,  she  looked 
upon  him  as  a  mere  schoolboy.  Byron  was  not  slow  to  see  this, 
and  his  eyes  were  still  more  effectually  opened  when  it  was 
reported  to  him  that  she  had  used  the  expression,  "  Do  you 
think  I  would  care  anything  for  that  lame  boy  ?"  Yet  all  this 
did  not  cure  his  love— if  it  did  not,  according  to  the  common 
rule,  increase  it.  Though  there  is  said  to  have  been  some 
romance  in  this  attachment,  founded  on  the  fact  of  a  near  rela- 
tive of  the  young  lady  having  been  killed  by  the  prior  Lord 
Byron  in  a  duel,  it  seems  to  be  the  general  opinion  that  his 
affection  was  not  only  not  a  mere  flitting  feeling,  but  perhaps 
more  generous  and  ardent  than  any  love  he  ever  entertained  after- 
wards ;  but  it  seems  to  have  been  Byron's  fate  to  have  all  out- 
ward powers  and  agencies  ever  ready  to  intercept  his  return  to 
moderation  and  prudence.     Of  this  lady  he  says  : 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shininp:  on  him  ;  he  hadlook'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  : 
She  was  his  voice  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her. 
But  trembled  on  her  words  :  she  was  his  sight. 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  color'd  all  his  objects  :— he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself  ;  she  was  his  life." 

"it  ';-..u.. >  .u      a .       ...,...,      I,      ,..       I     .    ,  L  -IK..   .      -,.r.-i..     {|. 


vili  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

In  another  part  of  the  same  poem  he  alludes  to  her  melan- 
choly fate — derangement : 

"  The  Lady  of  his  love  :— Oh,  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul  ;  her  mind 
Had  wander'd  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  hut  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm." 

The  latter  disappointment,  or  this  love  all  on  one  side,  tended 
still  further  to  confirm  the  early  tendency  to  misanthropy  which 
had  its  beginnings  in  his  deformity  and  his  mother's  treatment. 
Yet  so  flexible  is  human  nature — drawing  strength  from  weakness 
— that  his  genius,  as  Goethe  says,  was  pain.  Even  he  himself 
admits  that  the  very  misfortune  he  so  often  regretted  was  ine 
source  of  the  power  which  he  wielded,  though  probably  it  Is 
more  true  that  it  only  affected  the  direction  of  that  power.  In 
"  The  Deformed  Transformed  "  he  says : 

"  Deformity  is  daring. 
It  is  its  essence  to  overtake  mankind 
By  heart  and  soul,  and  make  itself  the  equal — 
Ay,  the  superior  of  ?he  rest.    There  is 
A  spur  ill  its  halt  movements,  to  become 
All  that  the  otiiers  cannot;  in  such  things 
As  still  are  free  to  both,  to  compensate 
For  stepdame  Nature's  avarice  at  first." 

Entered  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  the  autumn  of  1805, 
he  resided  there  for  two  years.  It  is  admitted  that,  when  the 
humor  seized  him,  he  read  avariciously,  and  thus  acquired  a 
-  great  amount  of  varied  and  stray  knowledge  ;  but  in  the  midst 
of  these  acquisitions,  which  he  sometimes  poured  forth,  changed 
by  the  alchemy  of  his  rising  genius,  so  as  to  produce  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  a  young  man  of  no  ordinary  promise,  he 
was  eccentric,  profuse,  and,  in  school  language,  idle.  Signally 
a  fast  young  man,  he  differed  from  his  associates  only  in  being 
often  clouded  in  melancholy,  and  probably  struggling  with 
aspirations.  He  never  loved  either  Cambridge  or  its  learning, 
while  all  the  self-will  of  his  nature  was  arrayed  against  the  laws 
and  restrictions  of  the  university,  as  well  as  those  who  adminis- 
tered them.  The  ecclesiastical  authority  was,  in  particular, 
distasteful  to  him,  for  already  he  was  seized  with  that  spirit  of 
scepticism  which  is  ever  allied  to  misanthropic  tendencies,  and 
this,  again,  brought  down  upon  him  the  significant  suspicion 
of  his  teachers.  The  dissociation  from  studies  was  in  him 
another  name  for  an  utter  resignation  of  both  mind  and  body  to 
his  impulses.  The  fervency  of  his  nature,  not  yet  gratified  by 
poetry,  got  relief  in  swimming  and  boxing ;  but  here  again  his 


-Ht- 


^h 


4K 


LIFE  OF  LOKD  BYRON.  ix 

evil  fate  was  in  the  way,  for  as  his  deformity  had  stood  between 
him  and  his  love,  so  now  it  militated  against  his  success  in  com- 
petition, not  that  he  was  not  both  energetic  and  expert,  but 
that  he  felt  he  might  have  been  triumphant  had  he  been  more 
auspiciously  formed.  And  it  was  not  this  drawback  alone  that 
he  had  to  lament ;  which,  if  he  had  treated  it  as  Scott  did  his 
similar  infirmity,  might  have  been  borne  with  resignation  and 
without  loss,  but  he  began  at  this  time  to  show  tokens  of 
obesity,  another  evil  which,  as  an  infliction  unmerited,  he  re- 
sented while  he  struggled  against. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  he  rushed  into  poetry,  which,  however, 
was  only  a  continuation  of  a  tendency  already  exhibited,  for  while 
at  Dr.  Glennie's  at  Dulwich  he  had  struck  off  pieces  to  his  cousin, 
Miss  Margaret  Parker.  This  he  considered  to  have  been  his  first 
effort;  but  his  nurse,  Mary  Gray,  who  was  not  likely  to  have  for- 
gotten so  important  an  exploit  in  the  strange  youth,  represents 
him  as  having  discharged  a  satire  at  an  old  lady  who  had  angered 
him  in  some  way.  His  efforts  at  Cambridge,  however,  had  all  the 
fire  and  rashness  of  a  first  burst.  The  pieces  circulated  from 
hand  to  hand  before  any  were  printed;  but  at  length  a  small  part 
of  them  were  put  to  press.  The  first  copy  was  presented  to  the 
Rev.  John  Becher,  Southwell,  whom  he  considered  his  friend, 
as  no  doubt  he  was;  and  probably  that  gentleman  gave  evidence 
of  his  sincerity  in  expostulating  with  him  on  the  unwarranted 
" luxuriousness  of  coloring"  in  one  specimen,  whereupon  the 
impatient  youth  instantly  ordered  the  whole  stock  to  be  burned. 
Only  two  copies  remained — Mr.  Becher's  own,  and  one  that  found 
the  way  to  Edinburgh.    A  reduced  edition  appeared  in  1807. 

Now  came  the  turning-point  of  his  life,  in  the  publication  of 
"The  Hours  of  Idleness;"  for  though  the  volume  itself  pre- 
sented a  collection,  from  the  very  best  of  which,  such  as  the 
beautiful  stanzas  to  "  Lochnagar,"  one  would  scarcely  have  ven- 
tured to  presage  the  powers  reserved  for  him  to  exhibit,  it  was 
destined  to  be  noticed  in  the  great  literary  organ  of  the  day,  the 
Edinburgh  Beview,  and  to  be  handled  in  a  manner  to  rouse  the 
energies  of  the  author.  It  has  been  often  said  that  the  reviewer 
had  a  grudge  to  satisfy,  which  was  apparent,  not  only  in  the 
harsh  treatment  of  so  young  an  aspirant,  but  in  the  very  circum- 
stance of  taking  up  so  apparently  a  trifle;  and  probably,  notwith- 
standing disclamations,  there  was  at  least  political  feeling  or 
democratic  ill-nature.  At  any  rate,  nothing  more  auspicious 
could  have  occurred  to  Byron,  who,  the  reverse  of  John  Keats, 
was  as  unlikely  'Ho  die  of  an  article  "  as  he  was  likely  to  make 
the  reviewer  die  of  a  satire.    Anger  collected  the  scattered  be- 


■Hi- 


4K 


X  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

ginnings  of  his  strength  to  a  centre  where  it  could  be  felt.  Hav- 
ing studied  the  satirical  poets  as  models,  and  collected  every 
available  bit  of  gossip  floating  at  the  time,  he,  in  1809,  poured 
forth  his  wrath,  all  the  warmer  for  the  nursing  he  had  given  it, 
in  his  "English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers."  Pointed  in  its 
abusive  personalities,  and  contemptuous,  without  any  discrimi- 
nation, of  all  the  literary  characters  of  the  day,  this  poem  exhib- 
ited powers  which  only  wanted  maturation  to  achieve  very  great 
things,  though  not  so  great  as  he  achieved.  Yet  it  is  certain 
that  Byron  was  subsequently  ashamed  of  this  satire,  not  that  it 
was  satirical,  nor  that  it  was  destitute  of  merit,  but  rather  that 
the  men  against  whom  it  was  chiefy  directed,  showed  they  had 
the  art  of  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  his  head.  On  a  copy  which  he 
perused  long  after,  he  wrote  the  following  words: — "  The  bind- 
ing of  this  volume  is  considerably  too  valuable  for  its  contents. 
Nothing  but  the  consideration  of  its  being  the  property  of  an- 
other prevents  me  from  consigning  this  miserable  record  of  mis- 
placed anger  and  indiscriminate  acrimony  to  the  flames."  Yet 
be  was  at  the  time  engaged  in  performing  an  office  of  the  same 
kind  on  human  nature  in  general.  The  man  was  probably  not 
changed,  excei^t  that  his  love  of  singularity  was  increased.  It 
is  said  that  when  he  read  the  review  he  drank  three  bottles  of 
claret  at  dinner— an  act  probably  genuine  enough  in  sincerity, 
but  when  he  afterwards  regretted  his  revenge,  he  could  ridicule 
very  sacred  conventionalities  among  mankind.  Even  his  own 
good  fortune  did  not  escape  his  satire,  as  when,  on  coming  of 
age,  he  celebrated  the  occasion,  and  some  say  the  anniversary, 
by  dining  on  eggs  and  bacon  and  a  bottle  of  ale,  adding,  long 
afterwards,  to  the  reminiscence,  "  but  as  neither  of  them  agrees 
with  me,  I  never  use  them  but  on  great  jubilees,  once  in  four  or 
five  years  or  so." 

Such  things,  and  many  other  eccentricities  subsequently  re- 
corded— among  the  earliest  of  which  was  his  epitaph  on  the  dog 
buried  at  Newstead,  wherein  he  gives  the  dog  a  soul  and  a  far 
higher  character  than  man,  the  common  object  of  his  revilings — 
all  indicate  the  prevailing  error  of  his  mind,  pride  showing  itself 
in  singularity.  We  have  used  the  word  misanthropy,  but  really, 
as  respects  Byron,  it  is  altogether  misapplied.  No  man  with  so 
susceptible  a  heart  for  friendship,  and  such  a  relish  for  the  good 
things  of  life— nay,  a  generosity  of  soul  where  his  affections 
pointed  out  the  object,  could  be  said  to  be  a  genuine  misan- 
thrope. It  was  altogether  with  him  a  stage  character.  In  that 
garb  he  had  conciliated  the  people  till  he  became  an  idol,  and 
falsely  supposed,  that  while  his  idolators  admired  him,  they  also 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xi 


pitied  him  for  the  misfortune  of  being  singular  and  gloomy. 
Not  but  that  his  soul  spumed  pity  in  the  common  sense,  only  it 
was  a  homage  to  his  fate,  and  he  gloried  in  being  under  the 
special  dominion  of  a  power  which,  like  the  Titans,  he  at  the 
same  time  battled  against. 

There  was  another  reason  why  Byron  persisted  in  appearing  in 
an  aspect  not  expressing  his  true  nature.  His  friends  blindly 
took  the  young  lord  for  what,  in  his  poetry  and  juvenile  esca- 
pades, he  declared  himself  to  be.  They  accordingly  began  early 
to  stand  aloof  from  him.  Even  Lord  Carlisle,  his  guardian,  fell 
into  this  error;  nor  can  we  have  better  evidence  of  this  mistake 
than  the  fact,  that  when  Lord  Byron  took  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Lords  in  1809,  there  was  no  one  to  introduce  him,  so  there  was 
induced  an  action  and  a  reaction,  all  the  consequents  of  a  false 
move,  and  yet  increasing  on  and  on  to  the  time  of  his  death. 
But  perhaps  the  best  evidence  we  can  have  of  the  absolute  dom- 
ination of  his  love  of  singularity  lies  in  the  fact,  that,  though  he 
often  regretted  his  imprudences,  his  regret  had  always  the  acer- 
bity of  a  retaliation  against  the  punishment  inflicted  by  those 
who  suffered  from  the  act  regretted. 

It  was,  accordingly,  under  a  feeling  of  something  approaching 
to  disgust,  that  he  resolved  upon  leaving  England,  on  a  two  year's 
absence,  with  Mr.  Hobhouse,  subsequently  Lord  Broughton.  It 
was  in  July,  1809,  that  he  left  Falmouth  on  this,  as  it  turned  out, 
poetical  pilgrimage,  in  the  course  of  which  he  visited  the  Peninsu- 
la, extended  his  travels  to  Greece  and  Turkey,  and,  with  his  genius 
now  inflamed  by  romantic  objects,  composed  in  great  part  the 
first  and  second  parts  of  "  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage."  It  may 
be  interesting  to  trace  these  wanderings,  destined  to  become,  ])y 
the  publication  of  the  poem  in  1812,  so  famous. 

After  touching  at  Lisbon,  Cadiz,  and  Gibraltar  and  Malta,  he 
arrived  at  Prevesa  In  Albania,  from  which  he  proceeded  on  a 
tour  through  the  provinces  of  Turkey,  arriving  at  Athens.  Here 
he  spent  a  considerable  time  examining  the  monuments  of 
ancient  philosophy  and  freedom,  which  were  afterwards  to  in- 
spire his  muse  in  her  most  amiable  fit.  He  lived  with  the  English 
Vice-Consul,  and  there  met  one  of  his  daughters,  the  celebrated 
Theresa  Macri,  so  well  known  as  "the  Maid  of  Athens," — a  lady 
of  great  beauty,  who  was  afterwards  married  to  Mr.  Black,  a 
gentleman  only  known  for  his  possession  of  so  famous  a  woman, 
and  of  great  strength  of  body.  Lord  Byron  subsequently  went 
to  Constantinople,  where  he  accomplished  the  feat  of  swimming 
across  the  Hellespont,  professedly  in  imitation  of  Leander  in  his 
visit  to  Hero.    Of  this  feat  he  might  very  well  be  proud,  as  the 


Ht 


■IK 


^K 


xil  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

distance,  though  direct  not  more  than  a  mile,  is  fully  three  if 
you  count  the  effect  of  the  currents;  and  though  he  did  not 
come  back  again,  it  requires  to  be  remembered  that  he  swam  for 
ambition,  not  for  love  of  a  beautiful  woman.  After  all,  the  task 
was  nothing  to  what  he  accomplished  afterwards;  for,  on  this 
occasion,  he  was  only  an  hour  and  ten  minutes  in  the  water, 
whereas,  in  the  Grand  Canal  of  Venice,  he  was  four  hours  and 
twenty  minutes.  He  returned  to  Athens  in  the  month  of  July, 
and  took  some  excursions  in  the  Morea,"  his  head-quarters  being 
the  monument  of  Lysicrates,  or  Lantern  of  Diogenes, — a  build- 
ng  somewhat  resembling  Dugald  Stewart's  monument  on  the 
Calton  Hill  of  Edinburgh.  Here  he  wrote  his  satire  upon  Lon- 
don life,  and  collected  ndtes  for  his  "  Childe  Harold." 

In  this  journey  the  two  years  expired.  In  the  meantime,  his 
mother,  living  at  Newstead,  was  under  a  presentiment  that  she 
would  never  see  him  again,  although  the  state  of  her  health  did 
not  indicate  a  near  dissolution.  Yet  so  it  turned  out  in  a  manner 
favorably  to  mystery,  and  yet  not  untrue  to  her  character.  It 
would  appear  that  the  very  preparations  she  made  for  his  return 
hastened  the  fulfilment  of  her  augury;  for  the  sight  of  some  up- 
holsterers' bills  threw  her  into  such  a  frenzy  of  passion,  that  she 
expired  just  as  Byron  was  posting  to  Newstead.  He  was  only  in 
time  to  bury  her.  On  the  occasion  of  the  funeral,  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  can  hardly  be  accounted  for,  even  by  a  con- 
firmed love  of  eccentricity,  not  less,  indeed,  than  by  insanity. 
He  did  not  accompany  the  remains  of  his  mother  to  the  vault, 
but  stood  at  the  entrance-door  of  the  mansion,  looking  with  un- 
meaning eyes  at  the  procession;  and  no  sooner  had  it  disap- 
peared, than,  putting  on  a  pair  of  boxing-gloves,  he  began  a 
sparring  match  with  a  boy-servant,  selected  oa  the  instant  as  his 
antagonist.  It  is  said  that  if  he  had  not  known  that  this  would 
be  recorded,  he  never  would  have  performed  it.  Perhaps  this 
may  be  true,  and  yet  there  is  a  kind  of  philosophy  which  would 
find  another  cause,  if  not  an  excuse.  Obedience  to  grief  is  nat- 
ural, but  there  is  a  rebellion  against  what  may  be  called  the 
cruelty  of  Fate,  which  is  only  unnatural,  because  seldom  wit- 
nessed. It  is  quite  certain  that  he  lamented  bitterly  the  loss  of 
his  parent;  for,  a  few  nights  before,  he  was  found  sitting  in  the 
dark  by  her  corpse,  and  when  expostulated  with,  answered,  "  O 
Mrs.  By.,  I  had  but  one  friend  in  the  world,  and  she  is  gone." 
And  about  a  month  afterwards,  he  is  found  writing  to  Mr.  Mur- 
ray: "  Your  letter  gives  me  credit  for  more  acute  feelings  than  I 
possess;  for  though  I  feel  tolerably  miserable,  yet  I  am  at  the 
same  time  subject  to  a  kind  of  hysterica)  merriment,  or  rather 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


xlii 


laughter  without  merriment,  which  I  can  neither  account  for  nor 
conquer."  This  is  an  explanation  of  what  appears  to  be  an 
anomaly,  which,  in  place  of  being  dishonorable  to  the  feelings, 
however  antagonistic  to  worldly  prudence  and  decorum,  may  be 
construed  as  a  weakness  overshadowing  strength,  and  produc- 
ing an  abnormal  condition  of  the  heart,  to  which  we  are  wit- 
nesses in  the  case  of  excitable  women  every  day. 

Byron  made  his  first  speech  in  Parliament  on  27th  February, 
1812,  on  the  occasion  of  the  Nottingham  Frame-breaking  Bill; 
and  two  days  thereafter  appeared  the  two  first  cantos  of  "  Childe 
Harold."  It  was  on  the  success  attending  this  work  that  he 
used  the  well-known  words,  "I  awoke  one  morning  and  found 
myself  famous."  He  was  now  twenty-four,  and  at  this  early 
age  became  the  most  popular  poet  that  perhaps  England  ever 
saw, — and  thus  like  our  Burns  as  regards  Scotland.  Byron  had 
a  style  peculiarly  his  own,  and  so  unlike  that  of  the  reigning 
favorites,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  that  the  people  were 
delighted  with  a  medium  of  reaching  their  hearts  free  from  the 
obscure  philosophy  of  the  one,  and  the  dreamy  metaphysics  of 
the  other.  He  seemed  to  liberate  them  from  a  bondage  as  their 
sympathies  found  play  in  his  clear  language,  rapid  turns,  and 
penetrating  flashes.  Nor  less  did  his  poetry  resemble  Scott's 
metrical  romances,  whose  homeliness,  if  not  often  heaviness, 
contrasted  unfavorably  with  the  new  poet's  stirring  flow  of  affec- 
tions, which,  if  more  conventional,  were,  fresher  and  more  in 
accordance  with  modem  habits  of  both  thinking  and  feeling. 
Even  in  his  tales  which  came  afterwards,  Byron  charmed  away 
the  admirers  of  his  northern  rival,  whose  popularity  waned  visi- 
bly every  day. 

In  rapid  succession  now  came  the  beautiful  fragment  "  The 
Giaour,"  the  less  regular  "Bride  of  Abydos,"  "The  Corsair," 
and  its  sequel  "Lara."  During  all  this  period,  when  his  fame 
culminated,  he  is  represented  as  being  little  better  than  mad;  but 
it  was  the  madness  of  one  who  had  striven  for  superiority  as  a 
blessing  that  was  to  cure  his  spirit  of  many  ills,  and  found  that 
his  appetite  for  fame  sickened  upon  what  it  fed.  This  is  less  or 
more  the  effect  of  all  ambition;  but  in  Byron  it  took  a  strange  as- 
pect. On  6th  December,  1813,  appears  this  entry  in  his  Journal: — 
"  This  journal  is,a  relief.  When  I  am  tired — as  I  generally  am — 
out  comes  this,  and  down  goes  everything.  But  I  can't  read  it  over; 
and  God  knows  what  contradictions  it  may  contain.  If  I  am  severe 
with  myself,  (but  I  fear  one  lies  more  near  to  one's  self  than  to 
any  one  else,)  every  page  should  confute,  refute,  and  utterly 
abjure  its  predecesssor."    In  a  paroxysm,  of  which  the  cause  is 


xiv  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

not  known,  he  wrote  to  his  publisher,  with  an  order  that  all  his 
writings  should  be  immediately  destroyed  ;  but  on  a  representa- 
tion from  Mr.  Murray,  he  agreed,  like  a  child,  to  moderate 
counsel.  In  1816,  the  first  and  most  characteristie  portion  of 
Byron's  works  terminated  with  "The  Siege  of  Corinth"  and 
"  Parisina." 

While  thus  building  up  his  poetical  fame,  his  domestic  history 
underwent  a  change.  His  friends,  really  anxious  for  a  return 
on  the  part  of  this  extraordinary  man  to  those  pleasures  which 
can  only  be  found  within  the  precincts  of  morality  and  the 
domestic  lares,  heard  with  much  satisfaction  that  he  had  paid 
his  addresses  to  the  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke,  and  with 
still  more,  that  he  had  been  accepted.  Things  looked  propi- 
tious :  even  the  unseen  powers  seemed  to  be  pleased,  if  we  arc 
to  believe  that  his  mother's  marriage-ring,  which  had  been  lost, 
was  dug  up  by  the  gardener  at  Newstead  on  the  very  day  Miss 
Milbanke's  acceptance  reached  the  poet.  In  1815,  they  were 
married.  In  the  same  year,  Lady  Bjron  bore  him  a  daughter, 
the  Ada  so  often  alluded  to  bj  him,  and  who  afterwards  married 
Lord  Lovelace.  But  the  marriage  proved  unhappy ;  and  in  the 
beginning  of  1816,  she  quitted  her  husband's  house  never  to 
return.  During  the  whole  of  this  time,  Newstead  must  have 
presented  an  extraordinary  scene  in  many  respects.  The  quar- 
rels have  not  transpired  ;  but  the  pecuniary  embarrassments  into 
which  Byron  had  precipitated  himself  were  too  open  to  be 
hidden.  The  house  was  nine  times  in  the  possession  of  bailiffs  ; 
and  although  Lady  Byron  had  not  left,  it  is  certain  that  Byron 
himself  would  have  been  necessitated  again  to  leave  England. 
His  pride  was  so  far  humbled,  too,  that  he  consented  to  receive 
payment  for  his  writings — a  kind  of  remuneration  which  he 
had  heretofore  considered  a  degradation. 

The  secret  of  this  difference  has  long  been  one  of  those  do- 
mestic mysteries  calculated  to  engage  the  attention  of  a  curious 
public.  It  is  certain  that  many  attempts  were  made  by  friends 
at  reconciliation  ;  but  where  the  lady  was  under  the  impression 
that  her  husband  was  insane,  there  could  be  no  hope  of  such  a 
result.  In  the  midst  of  the  confused  negotiations  it  came  out 
that  her  ladyship  condescended  on  no  fewer  than  sixteen  evi- 
dences of  insanity,  but  the  precise  character  of  these  has  never 
come  to  the  public  ear,  so  that  the  curiosity  which  ought  to 
have  abated  with  a  mere  knowledge  of  the  Imputation,  rather 
increased.  Of  course,  Lord  Byron  was  no  more  insane  than 
he  ever  had  been.  The  world  is  full  of  such  maniacs,  who  aro 
often,  by  kind  treatment,  brought  to  become  passable,  even 

^ i^ 


ih 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON.  xv 

very  loviug,  husbands.  Byron  had  no  fault  to  find  with  her, 
and  was  ready  to  embrace  the  first  opportunity  of  trying  to 
build  up  again  a  household  peace  ;  but  even  after  the  friends  of 
both  pronounced  for  his  sanity,  the  lady  took  another  position 
still  more  hopeless— that  if  he  were  sane,  he  was  still  more 
objectionable,  in  so  far  that  his  disrespect  towards  her  must 
have  resulted  from  intention.  The  truth  would  appear  to  be, 
that  she  had  really  never  loved  him  with  that  affection  which  is 
so  great  a  conciliator,  smoothing  down  so  many  of  the  asperities 
of  married  life,  and  even  changing  faults  into  virtues.  The  one 
expression  alone  of  his  Lordship  proves  that  he  was  not  a  mari- 
tal impossibility, — "  I  never  had,  nor  can  have,  any  reproach  to 
make  to  her  while  with  me. '  Where  there  is  blame,  it  belongs 
to  myself ;  and  if  I  cannot  redeem  it,  I  must  bear  it."  The  man 
who  wrote  this  might  have  been  won. 

But  the  lady's  part  was,  of  course,  taken  by  the  public.  An 
outcry  was  raised  against  Byron,  who,  soon  after,  left  England, 
never  to  set  foot  in  it  again.  His  first  residence  was  in  the 
vicinity  of  Geneva,  where  the  sublime  scenery  of  Switzerland 
and  the  sympathies  of  Shelley  contributed  to  raise  his  poetic 
enthusiasm  into  higher  and  purer  vigor  than  it  had  yet  attained. 
The  "  Prisoner  of  Chillon  "  was  written  here,  and  also  the  third 
canto  of  "  Childe  Harold;"  but,  beyond  all,  the  influence  of  the 
surrounding  scenery  gave  birth  to  "  Manfred,"  a  poem  deriving 
a  grandeur  from  physical  locale  and  supernatural  imagery  which 
renders  it  nearly  unique  in  our  language.  But  in  the  midst  of 
this  poetical  labor,  and  it  is  feared  much  dissipation,  he  was  not 
a  happy  man.  There  is  a  melancholy  passage  in  his  "  Journal  " 
which  has  been  often  quoted.  "  In  all  this,  recollections  of  bit- 
terness, and  more  especially  of  recent  and  more  home  desolation 
which  must  accompany  me  through  life,  have  preyed  upon  me 
here,  and  neither  the  music  of  the  shepherd,  nor  the  crashing  of 
the  avalanche,  nor  the  torrent,  the  mountain,  the  glacier,  the 
forest,  nor  the  cloud,  have  for  one  moment  lightened  the  weight 
upon  my  heart,  nor  enabled  me  to  lose  my  own  wretched  identity 
in  the  majesty  and  th^  power  and  the  glory  around,  above,  and 
beneath  me."  It  is  questionable  how  far  this  melancholy  was 
not  due  to  a  condition  of  the  body  induced  by  absurd  diet.  The 
horror  of  obesity  still  haunted  him,  and  the  means  he  took  to 
diminish  it  are  scarcely  credible.  "  A  thin  slice  of  bread,"  says 
Moore,  "  with  tea  at  breakfast,  a  light  vegetable  dinner,  with  a 
bottle  or  two  of  seltzer  water,  tinged  with  vin  de  grave,  and  in 
the  evening  a  cup  of  green  tea,  without  milk  or  sugar,  formed 
the  whole  of  his   sustenance.    The  pangs    of  hunger  he  ap- 


— ^ 

xvl  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

peased  by  privately  chewing  tobacco  and  smoking  cigars."  In 
-  the  end  of  1816  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Venice,  where 
he  remained  for  three  years,  sometimes  betaking  himself  to 
Rome,  and  collecting  materials  for  the  fourth  canto  of  his 
great  poem.  His  residence  in  Venice  was  shaded  by  habits 
which  are  said  to  have  reached  a  low  and  gross  debauchery  ;  nor 
was  his  connection,  something  more  lasting  than  his  other  loves, 
with  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  though  patronized  by  the  husband 
and  brother,  any  improvement,  at  least  to  English  feelings.  In 
1820  he  followed  the  Countess  and  her  family  to  Ravenna,  where, 
through  them,  he  got  engaged  in  political  plots,  the  consequence 
of  which  was  the  banishment  of  his  Italian  friends  from  the 
Papal  States.  Pisa  then  became  the  abode  of  the  party,  where 
Byron  received  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shelley,  and  afterwards  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  and  where  they  attempted  the  unsuccessful  periodical, 
the  Liberal. 

At  this  stage  of  his  life  there  occurs  a  touching  incident.  It 
happened  that  a  young  lady  in  Hastings  made  an  entry  in  her 
diary,  containing  a  solemn  prayer  for  one  very  clearly  pointed 
out  as  Lord  Byron.  She  afterwards  married  a  Mr,  Shepherd,  in 
Dorsetshire,  and  died  in  1819.  Two  years  afterwards,  that  gen- 
tleman, who  had  seen  the  entry,  wrote  to  Lord  Byron  with  apious 
communication.  Byron  returned  a  prompt  answer,  allowing  the 
advantage  believers  have  over  unbelievers,  and  saying  that  his 
scepticism  was  a  necessity  of  his  nature,  yet  almost  hoping  that 
he  would  be  like  Maupertius  and  Henry  Kirke  White,  who  began 
in  infidelity  and  ended  with  a  firm  belief.  It  is  to  be  feared  that 
this  hope  was  never  realized. 

While  in  Italy,  Byron's  poetical  vein  flowed  freely.  In  addi- 
tion to  "  Manfred  "  and  the  last  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  and 
several  works  rather  poor,  he  produced  "  ^lazeppa,"  **  The 
Lament  of  Tasso,"  and  his  dramas,  which,  with  the  exception  of 
**  Cain,"  showed  signs  of  moral  improvement,  though  rather  a 
falling  off  of  poetical  vigor.  Though  possessed  of  no  great 
versatility,  he  had  a  vein  for  a  grotesque^  humor,  something  of  . 
the  Italian  cast,  approaching  the  ludicrous,  yet  admitting  freely 
of  exquisite  descriptions.  His  first  attempt  in  this  direction  was 
"  Beppo,"  with  its  ethical  looseness,  pervading,  like  a  crawling 
serpent  among  flowers,  very  noble  poetry.  The  same  remarks 
apply  to  "Don  Juan."  As  connected  with  this  phase  of  his 
character,  we  may  notice  that  he  had  always  exhibited  a  tendency 
to  practical  joking.  Witness  the  present  of  a  Bible  he  made  to 
Mr.  Murray,  and  of  which  that  gentleman  was  so  proud— show- 
ing It  to  his  friends— until  he  discovered  that  Byron  had  put  his 

^ . Ifa> 


^ — — — — m* 

LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON.  xvii 

pen  through  the  word  "  robber,^ ^  in  the  sentence,  "  Now  Barabbas 
was  a  robber,"  and  replaced  it  by  "publisher.''^  All  this  is  very 
alien  from  a  character  of  sullen  misanthropy.  Timon  never 
jokes  1 

Byron  left  Pisa,  In  1823,  in  consequence  of  a  quarrel  with  some 
official,  and  also  because  the  Guiccioli  were  ordered  to  quit  the 
territories  of  Tuscany.  He  rejoined  them  in  Genoa.  In  the 
meantime  Shelley  had  been  drowned,  and  soon  after  a  field  of 
activity  was  opened  to  him  of  a  new  kind.  The  London  Com- 
mittee of  Philhellenes  requested  him  to  take  part  in  the  emanci- 
pation of  Greece,  and  he  enthusiastically  accepted  the  invitation. 
Sailing  from  Genoa  in  1823,  he  arrived  soon  after  at  Cephalonia, 
where  he  began  his  patriotic  exertions.  In  January,  1824,  he 
landed  at  Missolonghi.  He  was  now  laboring  under  illness, 
which  he  had  aggravated  by  bathing  in  the  sea  during  his  prior 
voyage.  The  great  object  of  his  expedition  was  fraught  with, 
disappointment  to  one  who  had  sung  of  Greece  as  Greece  once 
was.  His  health  was  further  injured  by  imprudent  exposure  to 
cold  in  an  unhealthy  climate,  and  by  many  anxieties  which  he 
never  expressed.  He  perhaps  treated  himself  unwisely ;  having 
a  great  antipathy  to  obesity,  he  was  always  endeavoring  to 
reduce  it.  In  Greece  he  lived  upon  dry  bread,  vegetables,  and 
cheese ;  and  to  notice  the  effect  of  his  dietetics,  he  used  to 
measure  his  wrist  and  waist  every  morning,  taking  medicine  if 
he  found  an  increase.  On  the  9th  of  April  he  got  wet  through, 
and  fever  and  rheumatic  pains  came  on.  On  the  18th  he  got  up 
and  attempted  to  read,  but  shortly  became  faint  and  returned  to 
bed.  He  died  of  this  fever,  with,  it  is  supposed,  its  accompany- 
ing inflammation  of  the  heart,  on  the  following  day.  It  is  said 
that  a  thunder-storm  broke  over  the  town  at  the  moment  of  his 
decease — a  clear  sign  to  the  Greeks  that  the  prodigies  of  their 
old  country  are  not  yet  ended.  His  remains  were  taken  to 
England,  and  interred  in  the  family  vault  in  the  church  of 
HucknaU. 


■HI , . JH- 


ih 


"iP  • 


CONTENTS, 


PAGB 

Life  op  Lord  Bybon, ▼ 

Thk  Coksair: 

Canto  1., ^ 

Canto  n., 15 

Canto  m.,         .        .                27 

Laba: 

Canto  L,        . 43 

Canto  n., 56 

The  Giaoub,        .......  .70 

The  Bkide  of  Abtdos: 

Canto  I., -100 

Canto  II., 110 

The  Siege  of  Cobinth, 127 

Pabisina, 149 

The  Prisoneb  of  Chillon, 163 

The  Dbeam, 173 

The  Lament  of  Tasso, 178 

Manfbed.    a  Dramatic  Poem, 184 

Heaven  and  Eabth.    A  Mystery,       .•       ...  214 

Cain.    A  Mystery, 240 

The  Cubse  of  Minebva, 283 

Mazeppa, 290 

The  Pbophect  op  Dante: .  308 

Canto  I., 310 

Canto  II.,           • 314 

Canto  III., 316 

Canto  IV., 320 

Fbancesca  of  Rimini.  From  the  Infemo  of  Dante.  Canto  V.,  324 
Hebrew  Melodies: 

She  walks  in  beauty, 3*<J6 

The  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept,  ....  326 

If  that  high  world, .327 

The  wild  Gazelle,      .        .        * 227 

Oh!  weep  for  those, 328 

On  Jordan's  banks,  • *  328 

Jephtha's  Daughter,     .......  328 

OhI  snatch'd  away  In  Beauty's  bloorn,    ....  329 


iH 


■Hf' 


\ 


XX  CONTENTS. 

Hebbew  Melodies. — Continued.  paob 

My  soul  is  dark, 829 

I  saw  thee  weep, 329 

Thy  days  are  done, 330 

Song  of  Saul  before  his  Last  Battle,    ....  330 

Saul, 331 

"  All  is  vanity,  saith  the  Preacher,"    ....  831 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay,       .        .        .  333 

Vision  of  Belshazzar, 332 

Sun  of  the  sleepless, 333 

Were  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it  to  be,      .  334 

Herod's  Lament  for  Mariamne, 334 

On  the  Day  of  the  Destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  Titus,  334 

By  the  rivers  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept,  .        .  335 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib,         ....  335 

A  Spirit  pass'd  before  me, 336 

Hours  of  Idleness.    Preface, 837 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Lady, 340 

ToE ,       .        .        .* 840 

To  D , 341 

Epitaph  on  a  Friend, 841 

A  Fragment,      ....*....  342 

On  leaving  Newstead  Abbey, 842 

Lines,         . 343 

Adrian's  Address  to  his  Soul  when  dying,         .        .  343 

Translation  from  Catullus, 344 

Translation  of  the  Epitaph  on  Virgil  and  Tibullus,  .  344 

Imitation  of  Tibullus, 344 

Translation  from  Catullus, 845 

Imitated  from  Catullus, 845 

Translation  from  Horace,         • 345 

From  Anacreon, •        .  346 

From  Anacreon, •        •        .  346 

From  tho  Prometheus  VInctus  of  ^schylus,    .        .  347 

To  Emma 348 

To  M.  S.  G., 348 

To  Caroline, 349 

To  Caroline, .  850 

To  Caroline, •        ...  351 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady, 351 

The  first  Kiss  of  Love 852 

On  a  Change  of  Masters  at  a  great  Public  School,    .  852 

To  the  Duke  of  Dorset, 853 

Fragment, 355 


— - — — m- 

CONTENTS.      ,  xxi 

HouBS  OF  Idleness. — Continued.  page 

Granta.    A  Medley, 355 

On  a  Distant  View  of  the  Village  and  School  of  Harrow- 

on-the-Hill,      .        .        • 358 

ToM , 358 

To  Woman,  359 

To  M.  S.  G., 360 

To  Mary, 860 

ToLcsbia, 361 

Lines  addressed  to  a  Young  Lady,       ....  362 

Love's  last  Adieu, 863 

Damaetas, 864 

To  Marion, 864 

To  a  Lady, 865 

Oscar  of  Alva, 866 

The  Episode  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  ....  373 

Translation  from  the  Medea  of  Euripides,     .        .        .  881 

Thoughts  suggested  by  a  College  Examination,        .  382 

To  a  Beautiful  Quaker, 383 

The  Cornelian, 385 

An  occasional  Prologue,  .- 385 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Fox, 886 

The  Tear, 387 

Reply  to  some  Verses, 388 

To  the  sighing  Strephon, ' 389 

To  Eliza, -390 

Lachin  y  Gair, 890 

To  Romance, 391 

Answer  to  some  Elegant  Verses, 393 

Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey, 394 

Childish  Recollections,    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  397 

Answer  to  a  Beautiful  Poem, 405 

Lines  addressed  to  the  Rev.  J.  T.  Becher,     .        .        .  406 

The  Death  of  Calmar  and  Orlo, 407 

To  Edward  Noel  Long,  Esq., 4IO 

To  a  Lady, 412 

I  would  I  were  a  careless  Child, 413 

When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander,    .        .        .       .  414 

To  George,  Earl  Delawarr, 415 

To  the  Earl  of  Clare,     .......  415 

Lines  written  beneath  an  Elm  In  the  Churchyard  of 

Harrow, 4I8 

English  Bakds  and  Scotch  Reviewers.    A  Satire,     .  421 

Postscript, 449 

■A -r— ^— ■-'■      '■■-..  . lfa< 


xxll  ,       CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Waltz.    An  apostrophic  Hymn,       ....  450 

Poems  on  Napoleon: 

Ode  to  Napoleon,          ...                .        .        .    •  459 

Ode  from  the  French, 463 

To  Napoleon, 464 

Napoleon's  Farewell, 465 

On  the  Star  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,           ...  466 

Poems  to  Thtrza: 

ToThyrza, 467 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe, 468 

One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free,          ....  4G9 

Euthanasia, 470 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  as  fair,      ....  471 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men,    ....  472 

Domestic  Pieces: 

Fare  thee  well, 474 

A  Sketch, •        .  475 

Stanzas  to  Augusta, 477 

Stanzas  to  Augusta, 478 

Epistle  to  Augusta, 479 

Lines  on  hearing  that  Lady  Byron  was  ill,          .        .  482 

Well!  thou  art  happy, 483 

The  Vision  op  Judgment, 485 

Miscellaneous  Poems: 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part,        .....  508 

Farewell!  if  ever  fondest  prayer, 509 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul, 509 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not, 509 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name,    ....  510 
And  wilt  thou  weep,  when  I  am  low?     .        .        .       .511 

On  Parting, .511 

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle,  ....  512 

Remember  him,  whom  Passion's  power,     .        .        .  512 

Lines  written  beneath  a  Picture, 513 

Stanzas  for  Music,                 514 

The  Chain  I  gave, 514 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  Song, 514 

Translation  of  a  Romaic  Love  Song,      .        .                .  515 

From  the  Portuguese, 516 

To  Genevra.    Sonnets  I.  and  II., 517 

To  Lake  Leman.    Sonnet, 517 

Darkness, 518 

Churchill's  Grave, 519 


-H^ 


\ 

J 

J 

\  . 

^j 

-^ 

U^ 

^^ 

I 

T^ 

CONTENTS. 

xxiil 

Miscellaneous  Poems. — Continued.                                  page         | 

To  a  Youthful  Friend, 

520 

Inscription  on  the  Monument  of  a  Newfoundland  Dog, 

522 

To  Time,            

522 

Lines  inscribed  on  a  Cup  formed  from  a  Skull, 

523 

Prometheus, 

524 

Lines  written  in  the  Travellers'  Book  at  Orchomenus, 

525 

Lines  written  in  an  Album,  at  Malta,     .... 

525 

Written  after  Swimming  from  Sestos  to  Abydos, 

525 

Translation  of  a  famous  Greek  War-Song,     . 

526 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown! 

527 

Stanzas  written  on  passing  the  Ambracian  Gulf,  . 

527 

To  Florence, 

528 

Stanzas  composed  during  a  Thunder-storm, 

529 

On  being  asked  what  was  the  "  Origin  of  Love,"     . 

531 

Impromptu,  in  Reply  to  a  Friend, 

531 

To  Samuel  Rogers,  Esq.,       .               .... 

531 

Condolatory  Address  to  Sarah,  Countess  of  Jersey,      . 

531 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady  on  leaving  England, 

532 

The  Farewell 

534 

When  we  two  parted,  .        .        .        ... 

534 

Lines  to  a  Lady  weeping,        .        .        . 

535 

Windsor  Poetics, 

535 

Elegaic  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir  Peter  Parker,  Bart 

,535 

A  Fragment,  ....*.... 

536 

Stanzas  for  Music, 

537 

Fill  the  goblet  again, 

538 

Remember  thee!  remember  thee! 

538 

On  a  Cornelian  Heart  which  was  broken,   . 

539 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  the  Right  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan 

,539 

Address,  spoken  at  the  Opening  of  Drury-Tiane  Theatre 

Saturday,  October  10, 1812, 

541 

On  revisiting  Harrow, 

543 

The  Adieu.    Written  under  the  impression  that  the 

. 

author  would  soon  die, 

543 

Farewell  to  the  Muse, 

545 

To  an  Oak  at  Newstead, 

546 

Epistle  to  a  Friend,  in  answer  to  some  lines  exhorting 

the  author  to  be  cheerful,  and  to  "  banish  care," 

547 

Stanzas  for  Music,         . 

548 

Address  intended  to  have  been  recited  at  the  CaledoniaD 

L 

Meeting,  1814,         ....... 

549 

To  Belshazzar,  ..-...••. 

550 

^  Stanzas  for  Music,         ....... 

550 

^  V 

-    ^ 

t  ^ 

^^ 

i 

•■% 

r^ 

^h 


xxlv  CONTENTS. 

Childe  Habold's  Pilobimaob:  page 

Preface, 551 

To  lanthe, •        .  554 

Canto  I., ^^       .        •        .  555 

To  Inez, 574 

Canto  II., 577 

Canto  III., 600 

Canto  IV., 628 

Extracts  from  Don  Juan: 

The  Lake  Poets  (from  Dedication), 667 

Portrait  of  Julia, 668 

Juan's  Love, 668 

Sweet  Things, 669 

Squandered  Youth, 670 

Storm  and  Shipwreck, 671 

An  Eastern  Picture, 676 

The  Poet's  Song— The  Isles  of  Greece,  .        .       .       .677 

Twilight, 679 

Death  in  Youth, 680 

Haidee's  Dream, 680 

Moorish  Picture, 681 

Dante's  Column, 682 

Love, 682 

Eastern  Group, 683 

A  Posture, 684 

Love  and  Glory, 684 

Wars, 684 

Wellington,  . 685 

Pyrrhonism, 686 

England,        •        • 687 

Berkley, 687 

Poetical  Characters,     ....*..  688 

A  Sot,        ....••...•  689 

Money, •       ....  689 

The  Fortune, 690 

Quixotism, 691 

Norman  Abbey, 692 

The  Suicide, 695 

Motives, 695 

Truth, 696 

Vanity, 696 

Adeline's  Song— The  Black  Friar,       ....  697 


^i- 


ii* 


THE    CORSAIR, 


TO  THOMAS  MORE,  ESQ. 

My  dear  Mooue  :  I  dedicate  to  you  the  last  production  with  which 
I  shall  trespass  on  public  patience,  and  your  indulgence,  for  some 
years;  and  I  own  that  I  feel  anxious  to  avail  myself  of  this  latest 
and  only  opportunity  of  adorning  my  pages  with  a  name  consecrated 
by  unshaken  public  principle,  and  the  most  undoubted  and  various 
talents.  While  Ireland  ranks  you  among  the  firmest  of  her  patriots; 
while  you  stand  alone  the  first  of  her  bards  in  her  estimation,  and 
Britain  repeats  and  ratifies  the  decree,  permit  one  whose  only  re- 
gret, since  our  first  acquaintaxice,  has  been  the  years  he  had  lost 
before  it  commenced,  to  add  the  humble  but  sincere  suffrage  of 
friendship  to  the  voice  of  more  than  one  nation.  It  will  at  least 
prove  to  you  that  I  have  neither  forgotten  the  gratification  derived 
from  your  society,  nor  abandoned  the  prospect  of  its  renewal,  when- 
ever your  leisure  or  inclination  allows  you  to  atone  to  your  friends 
for  too  long  an  absence.  It  is  said  among  those  friends,  I  trust 
truly,  that  you  are  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  poem  whose 
scene  will  be  laid  in  the  East;  none  can  do  these  scenes  so  much 
justice.  The  wrongs  of  your  own  country,  the  magnificent  and 
fiery  spirit  of  her  sons,  the  beauty  and  feeling  of  her  daughters, 
may  there  be  found;  and  Collins,  when  he  denominated  his  Oriental 
his  Irish  Eclogues,  was  not  aware  how  true,  at  least,  was  a  part  of 
his  parallel.  Your  imagination  will  create  a  warmer  sun,  and  less 
clouded  sky;  but  wildness,  tenderness,  and  originality  are  part  of 
your  national  claim  of  Oriental  descent,  to  which  you  have  already 
thus  far  proved  your  title  more  clearly  than  the  most  zealous  of 
your  country's  antiquarans. 

May  I  add  a  few  words  on  a  subject  on  which  all  men  are  sup- 
posed to  be  fluent  and  none  agreeable?— Self.  I  have  written  much, 
and  published  more  than  enough  to  demand  a  longer  silence  than  I 
now  meditate;  but.  for  some  years  to  come,  it  is  my  intention  to 
tempt  no  further  the  award  of  "gods,  men,  nor  columns."  In  the 
present  composition  I  have  attempted  not  the  most  difficult,  but, 
perhaps,  the  best  adapted  measure  to  our  langu  ge,  the  good  old, 
and  now  neglected  heroic  couplet.  The  stanza  of  Spenser  is  per- 
haps too  slow  and  dignified  for  narrative;  though,  I  confess,  it  is  the 
measure  most  after  my  own  heart.  Scott  alone,  of  the  present  gen- 
eration, has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the  fatal  faciUty 
of  the  octo-syllabic  verse;  and  this  is  not  the  least  victory  of  hia 


♦* 


•*-^ 


2  THE  CORSAIR. 

fertile  and  mighty  genius.  In  blank  verse,  Milton,  Thomson,  and 
our  dramatists,  are  the  beacons  that  shine  along  the  deep,  but  warn 
us  from  the  rough  and  barren  rock  on  which  they  are  kindled.  The 
heroic  couplet  is  not  the  most  popular  measure,  certain  ly ;  but  as  I  did 
not  deviate  into  the  other  from  a  wish  to  flatter  what  is  called  public 
opinion,  I  shall  quit  it  without  further  apology,  and  tak6  my  chance 
once  more  with  that  versification  in  which  I  have  hitherto  published 
nothing  but  compositions  whose  former  circulation  is  part  of  my 
present,  and  will  be  of  my  future  regret. 

With  regard  to  my  story,  and  stories  in  general,  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  have  rendered  my  personages  more  perfect  and  ami- 
able, if  possible,  inasmuch  as  I  have  been  sometimes  criticised,  and 
considered  no  less  responsible  for  their  deeds  and  qualities  than  if 
all  had  been  personal.  Be  it  so.  If  I  have  deviated  into  the  gloomy 
vanity  of  "drawing  from  self,"  the  pictures  are  probably  like,  since 
they  are  unfavorable ;  and  if  not,  those  who  know  me  are  undeceived, 
and  those  who  do  not,  I  have  little  interest  in  undeceiving.  I  have 
no  particular  desire  that  any  but  my  acquaintance  should  think  the 
author  better  than  the  beings  of  his  imagining;  but  I  cannot  help  a 
little  surprise,  and  perhaps  amusement,  at  some  odd  critical  excep- 
tions in  the  present  instance,  when  I  see  several  bards  (far  more  de- 
serving, I  allow)  in  very  reputable  plight,  and  quite  exempted  from 
all  participation  in  the  faults  of  those  herpes,  who,  nevertheless, 
might  be  found  with  little  more  morality  than  "The  Giaour,"  and, 
perhaps — but  no— I  must  admitChilde  Harold  to  be  a  very  repul.«ive 
personage;  and  astoh's  identity,  those  who  like  it  must  give  him 
whatever  alias  they  please. 

If,  however,  it  were  worth  while  to  remove  the  impression,  it 
might  be  of  some  service  to  me,  that  the  man  who  is  alike  the  de- 
light of  his  readers  and  his  friends,  the  poet  of  all  circles,  and  the 
idol  of  his  own,  permits  me  here  and  elsewhere  to  subscribe  myself, 
most  truly  and  affectionately,  his  obedient  servant, 

BYRON. 

January  2,  1814. 


♦iJ ^^— 1  J. 


■if- 


iK 


THE  CORSAIR, 


CANTO   THE  FIRST. 


-nessun  maggior  dolore, 


Che  ricordai-si  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria, ." — Dantk. 


"  O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark-blue  sea,* 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  ^ouls  as  free, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Survey  our  empire,  and  behold  our  home  ! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave  ; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease  1 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not — pleasure  cannot  please — 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense— the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 
That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint — can  only  feel- 
Feel — ^to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 
No  dread  of  death— if  with  us  die  our  foes — 
Save  that  it  seems  even  duller  than  repose  : 
Come  when  it  will— we  snatch  the  life  of  life — 
When  lost— what  recks  it— by  disease  or  strife  ? 
Let  him  who  crawls  enamor'd  of  decay, 
Cling  to  his  couch,  and  sicken  years  away ; 
Heave  his  thick  breath,  and  shake  his  palsied  head ; 
Ours- the  fresh  turf,  and  not  the  feverish  bed. 
While  gasp  by  gasp  he  falters  forth  his  soul. 
Ours  with  one  pang — one  bound — escapes  control. 
His  corpse  may  boast  its  urn  and  narrow  cave. 
And  they  who  loathed  his  life  may  gild  his  grave  ; 

*  The  time  ia  this  poem  may  seem  too  short  for  the  occurrences, 
but  the  whole  of  the  Mgean  isles  are  within  a  few  hours'  sail  of  the 
continent,  and  the  reaaer  must  be  kind  enough  to  take  the  vnnd  as  1 
have  often  found  it. 


ih 


■ih 


* • Ik 

4  THE   CORSAIR.  [canto  i. 

Ours  are  the  tears,  though  few,  sincerely  shed. 
When  Ocean  shrouds  and  sepulchres  our  dead. 
For  us,  even  banquets  fond  regret  supply 
In  the  red  cup  that  crowns  our  memory  ; 
And  the  brief  epitaph  in  danger's  day. 
When  those  who  win  at  length  divide  the  prey, 
And  cry,  Remembrance  saddening  o'er  each  brow, 
How  had  the  brave  who  fell  exulted  nowP^ 


n. 

Such  were  the  notes  that  from  the  Pirate's  isle, 

Around  the  kindling  watch-fire  rang  the  while; 

Such  were  the  sounds  that  thrill'd  the  rocks  along, 

And  unto  ears  as  rugged  seem'd  a  song  I 

In  scatter'd  groups  upon  the  golden  sand. 

They  game — carouse — converse— or  whet  the  brand; 

Select  the  arms — to  each  his  blade  assign, 

And  careless  eye  the  blood  that  dims  its  shine; 

Repair  the  boat,  replace  the  helm  or  oar. 

While  others  straggling  muse  along  the  shore; 

For  the  wild  bird  the  busy  springes  set. 

Or  spread  beneath  the  sun  the  dripping  net; 

Gaze  where  some  distant  sail  a  speck  supplies, 

With  all  the  thirsting  eye  of  Enterprise  ; 

Tell  o'er  the  tales  of  many  a  night  of  toil. 

And  marvel  where  they  next  shall  seize  a  spoil: 

No  matter  where— their  chief's  allotment  this; 

Theirs,  to  believe  no  prey  nor  plan  amiss. 

But  who  that  Chief  ?  his  name  on  every  shore 

Is  famed  and  fear'd — they  ask  and  know  no  more. 

With  these  he  mingles  not  but  to  command;  - 

Few  are  his  words,  but  keen  his  eye  and  hand. 

Ne'er  seasons  he  with  mirth  their  jovial  mess, 

But  they  forgive  his  silence  for  success. 

Ne'er  for  his  lip  the  purpling  cup  they  fill, 

That  goblet  passes  him  untasted  still — 

And  for  his  fare— the  rudest  of  his  crew 

Would  that,  in  turn,  have  pass'd  untasted  too; 

Earth's  coarsest  bread,  the  garden's  homeliest  roots, 

And  scarce  the  summer  luxury  of  fruits, 

His  short  repast  In  humbleness  supply 

With  all  a  hermit's  board  would  scarce  deny. 

But  while  he  shuns  the  grosser  joys  of  sense. 

His  mind  seems  nourish'd  by  that  abstinence. 

"  Steer  to  that  shore!"— they  sail.    *<Do  thisl"— 'tisdonel 

**  Now  form  and  follow  me  !"— the  spoil  is  won. 

Thus  prompt  his  accents  and  his  actions  still, 

And  all  obey  and  few  inquire  his  will; 

To  such,  brief  answer  and  contemptuous  eye 

Convey  reproof,  nor  further  deign  reply. 


III. 

"A  sail  1— a  sail !"— a  promised  prize  to  Hope  I 
Her  nation — flag — how  speaks  the  telescope  r 


r 


*ii- 


M- 


CANTO  I.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


No  prize,  alas!— but  yet  a  welcome  sail: 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes — she  is  ours — a  home-returning  bark — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze! — she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  cape — our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant  course  she  goes! 

Her  white  wings  flying— never  from  her  foes — 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire — the  wreck — 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck? 

rv. 

Hoarse  o'er  her  side  the  rustling  cable  rings; 

The  sails  are  furFd;  and  anchoring,  round  she  swings; 

And  gathering  loiterers  on  the  land  discern 

Her  boat  descending  from  the  latticed  stem. 

'Tis  mann'd — the  oars  keep  concert  to  the  strand 

Till  grates  her  keel  upon  the  shallow  sand. 

Hail  to  the  welcome  shout! — ^the  friendly  speech! 

When  hand  grasps  hand  uniting  on  the  beach; 

The  smile,  the  question,  and  the  quick  reply, 

And  the  heart's  promise  of  festivity! 

V. 

The  tidings  spread,  and  gathering  grows  the  crowd: 
The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  laughter  loud, 
And  woman's  gentler  anxious  tone  is  heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers'  names  in  each  dear  word: 
"  Oh!  are  they  safe?  we  ask  not  of  success — 
But  shall  we  see  them?  will  their  accents  bless? 
From  where  the  battle  roars — the  billows  chafe — 
They  doubtless  boldly  did — but  who  are  safe? 
Here  let  them  haste  to  gladden  and  surprise, 
And  kiss  the  doubt  from  these  delighted  eyes!" 


■Ht 


"  Where  is  our  chief?  for  him  we  bear  report — 

And  doubt  that  joy — which  hails  our  coming — short; 

Yet  thus  sincere — 'tis  cheering,  though  so  brief; 

But,  Juan!  instant  guide  us  to  our  chief: 

Our  greeting  paid,  we'll  feast  on  our  return. 

And  all  shall  hear  what  each  may  wish  to  learn." 

Ascending  slowly  by  the  rock-hewn  way. 

To  where  his  watch-tower  beetles  o'er  the  bay, 

By  bushy  brake,  and  wild  flowers  blossoming, 

And  freshness  breathing  from  each  silver  spring, 

Whose  scatter'd  streams  from  granite  basins  burst, 

Leap  into  life,  and  sparkling  woo  your  thirst; 

From  crag  to  cliff  they  mount. — Near  yonder  cave, 

What  lonely  straggler  looks  along  the  wave? 

In  pensive  posture  leaning  on  the  brand, 

Not  oft  a  re  sting-staff  to  that  red  hand? 

"  'Tis  he — 'tis  Conrad— here — a.a  wont— alone; 


«-^ 


^ ^ .^^ 

6  THE  CORSAIR.  [cakto  i. 

On — Juan! — on — and  make  our  purpose  known. 
The  bark  he  views — and  tell  him  we  would  greet 
His  ear  with  tiding  he  must  quickly  meet: 
We  dare  not  yet  approach — thou  know'st  his  mood, 
When  strange  or  uninvited  steps  intrude." 

Ytl. 

Him  Juan  sought,  and  told  of  their  intent; — 

He  spake  not — but  a  sign  express 'd  assent. 

These  Juan  calls — they  come — to  their  salute 

He  bends  him  slightly,  but  his  lips  are  mute. 

"  These  letters,  Chief,  are  from  the  Greek — the  spy. 

Who  still  proclaims  our  spoil  or  peril  nigh: 

Whate'er  his  tidings,  we  can  well  report 

Much  that" — "Peace,  peace!" — he  cuts  their  prating 

short. 
Wondering  they  turn,  abash'd,  while  each  to  each 
Conjecture  whispers  in  his  muttering  speech: 
They  watch  his  glance  with  many  a  stealing  look, 
To  gather  how  that  eye  the  tidings  took; 
But,  this  as  if  he  guess'd,  with  head  aside. 
Perchance  from  some  emotion,  doubt,  or  pride, 
He  read  the  scroll — "  My  tablets,  Juan,  hark — 
Where  is  Gonsalvo?" 

"In  the  anchor'dbark." 
"  There  let  him  stay — to  him  this  order  bear. 
Back  to  your  duty — for  my  course  prepare: 
Myself  this  enterprise  to-night  will  share." 
"  To-night,  Lord  Conrad?' ' 

"  Ay!  at  set  of  sun: 
The  breeze  will  freshen  when  the  day  is  done. 
My  corselet — cloak — one  hour — and  we  are  gone. 
Sling  on  thy  bugle— see  that  free  from  rust 
My  carbine-lock  springs  worthy  of  my  trust; 
Be  the  edge  sharpen'd  of  my  boarding-brand, 
And  give  its  guard  more  room  to  fit  my  hand. 
This  let  the  Armorer  with  speed  dispose; 
Last  time,  it  more  fatigued  my  arm  than  foes: 
Mark  that  the  signal-gun  be  duly  fired, 
To  tell  us  when  the  hour  of  stay  's  expired." 


They  make  obeisance,  and  retire  in  haste, 
Too  soon  to  seek  again  the  watery  waste: 
Yet  they  repine  not — so  that  Conrad  guides. 
And  who  dare  question  aught  that  he  decides? 
That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery. 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh; 
Whoscname  appalls  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sullower  hue; 
Still  sways  their  souls  with  that  commanding  art 
That  dazzles,  leads,  yet  chills  the  vulgar  heart. 
What  is  that  spell,  that  thus  his  lawless  train 
Confess  and  envy,  yet  oppose  in  vain? 
What  should  it  be,  that  thus  their  faith  can  bind? 
The  power  of  Thought— the  magic  of  the  Mind? 


*♦ 


♦I  J- 


CANTO  I,] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Link'd  with  success,  assumed  and  kept  with  skill, 
That  moulds  another's  weakness  to  its  will; 
Wields  with  their  hands,  but,  still  to  these  unknown, 
Makes  even  their  mightiest  deeds  appear  his  own. 
Such  hath  it  been — shall  be— beneath  the  sun: 
The  many  still  must  labor  for  the  one! 
'Tis  nature's  doom— but  let  the  wretch  who  toils. 
Accuse  not,  hate  not  him  who  wears  the  spoils 
Oh!  if  he  knew  the  weight  of  splendid  chains, 
How  light  the  balance  of  his  humble  pains  I 

IX. 

Unlike  the  heroes  of  each  ancient  race, 

Demons  in  act,  but  gods  at  least  in  face, 

In  Conrad's  form  seems  little  to  admire, 

Though  his  dark  eyebrow  shades  a  glance  of  fire: 

Robust  but  not  herculean— to  the  sight 

No  giant  frame  sets  forth  his  common  height; 

Yet,  in  the  whole,  who  paused  to  look  again. 

Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men; 

They  gaze  and  marvel  how — and  still  confess 

That  thus  it  is,  but  why,  they  cannot  guess. 

Sun-burnt  his  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale 

The  sable  curls  in  wild  profusion  veil; 

And  oft  perforce  his  rising  lip  reveals 

The  haughtier  thought  it  curbs,  but  scarce  conceals. 

Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  general  mien, 

Still  seems  there  something  he  would  not  have  seen; 

His  features'  deepening  lines,  and  varying  hue 

At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view. 

As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 

Work'd  feelings  fearful,  and  yet  undefined; 

Such  might  it  be— that  none  could  truly  tell — 

Too  close  inquiry  his  stem  glance  would  quell. 

There  breathe  but  few  whose  aspect  might  defy 

The  full  encounter  of  his  searching  eye: 

He  had  the  skill,  when  Cunning's  gaze  would  seek 

To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  cnanging  cheek, 

At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy. 

And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny. 

Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 

Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer, 

That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear; 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 

Hope  withering  fled — and  Mercy  sigh'd  farewell! 


Slight  are  the  outward  signs  of  evil  thought, 

Within — within — 'twas  there  the  spirit  wrought! 

Love  shows  all  changes— Hate,  Ambition,  Guile, 

Betray  no  futher  than  the  bitter  smile; 

The  lip's  least  curl,  the  lightest  paleness  thrown 

Along  the  govem'd  aspect,  speak  alone 

Of  deeper  passions;  and  to  judge  their  mien. 

He,  who  would  see,  must  be  himself  unseen. 


■It* 


♦^ —       '■  """' ■ '  -ih" 

8  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  i. 

Then — with  the  hurried  tread,  the  upward  eye, 
The  clenched  hand,  the  pause  of  agony, 
That  listens,  startinj^^,  lest  the  step  too  near 
Approach  intrusive  on  that  mood  of  fear: 
Then — with  each  feature  working  from  the  heart, 
With  feelings  loosed  to  strengthen— not  depart: 
That  rise — convulse — contend— that  freeze  or  glow 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  or  damp  upon  the  brow; 
Then— Stranger!  if  thou  canst,  and  tremblest  not, 
Behold  his  soul— the  rest  that  soothes  his  lot! 
Mark — how  that  lone  and  blighted  bosom  sears 
The  scathing  thought  of  execrated  years! 
Behold — but  who  hath  seen,  or  e'er  shall  see, 
Man  as  himself— the  secret  spirit  free? 

XI. 

Yet  was  not  Conrad  thus  by  Nature  sent 

To  lead  the  guilty — guilt's  worse  instrument — 

His  soul  was  changed,  before  his  deeds  had  driven 

Him  forth  to  war  with  man  and  forfeit  heaven. 

Warp'd  by  the  world  in  Disappointment's  school, 

In  words  too  wise,  in  conduct  there  a  fool; 

Too  firm  to  yield,  and  far  too  proud  to  stoop, 

Doom'd  by  his  very  virtues  for  a  dupe. 

He  cursed  those  virtues  as  the  cause  of  ill, 

And  not  the  traitors  who  betray 'd him  still; 

Nor  deem'd  that  gifts  bestow'd  on  better  men 

Had  left  him  joy,  and  means  to  give  again. 

Fear'd — shunii'd — belied — ere  youth  had  lost  her  force, 

He  hated  man  too  much  to  feel  remorse. 

And  thought  the  voice  of  wrath  a  sacred  call. 

To  pay  the  injuries  of  some  on  all. 

He  knew  himself  a  villain — but  he  deem'd 

The  rest  no  better  than  the  thing  he  seem'd; 

And  scorn'd  the  best  as  hypocrites  who  hid 

Those  deeds  the  bolder  spirit  plainly  did. 

He  knew  himself  detested,  but  he  knew 

The  hearts  that  loathed  him,  crouch'd  and  dreaded  too. 

Lone,  wild,  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 

From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt: 

His  name  could  sadden  and  his  acts  surprise: 

But  they  that  fear'd  him  dared  not  to  despise. 

Man  spurns  the  worm,  but  pauses  ere  he  wake 

The  slumbering  venom  of  the  folded  snake: 

The  first  may  turn — but  not  avenge  the  blow; 

The  last  expires  but  leaves  no  livmg  foe; 

Fast  to  the  doom'd  offender's  form  it  clings, 

And  he  may  crush — not  conquer — still  it  stings  I 


None  are  all  evil — quickening  round  his  heart, 
One  softer  feeling  would  not  yet  depart; 
Oft  could  he  sneer  at  others,  as  beguiled 
By  passions  worthy  of  a  fool  or  child; 
Yet  'gainst  that  passion  vainly  still  he  strove, 
And  even  in  him  it  asks  the  name  of  Love! 


-Hf- 


4k 


CANTO  I.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Yes,  it  was  love — unchangeable— unchanged, 

Felt  but  for  one  from  whom  he  never  ranged; 

Though  fairest  captives  daily  met  his  eye,' 

He  shunn'd,  nor  sought,  but  coldly  pass'd  them  by; 

Though  many  a  beauty  droop'd  in  prison'd  bower, 

None  ever  soothed  his  most  unguarded  hour. 

Yes — it  was  Love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness, 

Tried  in  temptation,  strengthen'd  by  distress, 

Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime. 

And  yet — oh  more  than  all! — untired  by  time; 

Which  nor  defeated  hope,  nor  baffled  wile. 

Could  render  sullen  were  she  near  to  smile. 

Nor  rage  could  fire,  nor  sickness  fret  to  vent 

On  her  one  murmur  of  his  discontent; 

Which  still  would  meet  with  joy,  with  calmness  part, 

Lest  that  his  look  of  grief  should  reach  her  heart; 

Which  naught  removed,  nor  menaced  to  remove — 

If  there  be  love  in  mortals — this  was  love! 

He  was  a  villain — ay — reproaches  shower 

On  him— but  not  the  passion,  nor  its  power, 

Which  only  proved,  all  other  virtues  gone. 

Not  guilt  itself  could  quench  this  loveliest  one! 


XIII. 

He  paused  a  moment — till  his  hastening  men 

Pass'd  the  first  winding  downward  to  the  glen. 

*'  Strange  tidings!— many  a  peril  have  I  past, 

Nor  know  I  why  this  next  appears  the  last! 

Yet  80  my  heart  forebodes,  but  must  not  fear, 

Nor  shall  my  followers  find  me  falter  here. 

'Tis  rash  to  meet,  but  surer  death  to  wait 

Till  here  they  hunt  us  to  undoubted  fate; 

And,  if  my  plan  but  hold,  and  Fortune  smile. 

We'll  furnish  mourners  for  our  funeral-pile. 

Ay — ^let  them  slumber — peaceful  be  their  dreams! 

Mom  ne'er  awoke  them  with  such  brilliant  beams 

As  kindle  high  to-night  (but  blow,  thou  breeze!) 

To  warm  these  slow  avengers  of  the  seas. 

Now  to  Medora — Oh!  my  sinking  heart, 

Long  may  her  own  be  lighter  than  thou  art! 

Yet  was  I  brave — mean  boast  where  all  are  brave! 

Even  insects  sting  for  aught  they  seek  to  save. 

This  common  courage  which  Avith  brutes  we  share, 

That  owes  its  deadliest  efforts  to  despair. 

Small  merit  claims — but  'twas  my  nobler  hope 

To  teach  my  few  with  numbers  still  to  cope; 

Long  have  I  led  them — not  to  vainly  bleed: 

No  medium  now — we  perish  or  succeed! 

So  let  it  be— it  irks  not  me  to  die; 

But  thus  to  urge  them  whence  they  cannot  fly. 

My  lot  hath  long  had  little  of  my  care. 

But  chafes  my  pride  thus  baffled  in  the  snare: 

Is  this  my  skill?  my  craft?  to  set  at  last 

Hope,  power,  and  life  upon  a  single  cast? 


-* m- 

'  10  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  I. 

Oh,  Fate: — accuse  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate- 
She  may  redeem  thee  etill— nor  yet  too  late." 

XIV. 
Thus  with  himself  communion  held  he,  till 
He  reach'd  the  summit  of  his  tower-crown'd  hill; 
There  at  the  portal  paused— for  wild  and  soft 
He  heard  those  accents  never  heard  too  oft; 
Through  the  high  lattice  far  yet  sweet  they  rung, 
And  these  the  notes  his  bird  of  beauty  sung: — 

1. 

"Deep  in  my  soul  that  tender  secret  dwells, 
Lonely  and  lost  to  light  for  evermore, 
Save  when  to  thine  my  heart  responsive  swells, 
Then  trembles  into  silence  as  before. 

2. 

"  There,  in  its  centre,  a  sepulchral  lamp. 

Burns  the  slow  flame,  eternal— but  unseen; 
Which  not  the  darkness  of  despair  can  damp. 
Though  vain  its  ray  as  it  had  never  been. 

3. 
"  Remember  me— Oh!  pass  not  thou  my  grave 

Without  one  thought  whose  relics  there  recline: 
The  only  pang  my  bosom  dare  not  brave 
Must  be  to  find  f  orgetf  ulness  in  thine. 

4. 
"My  fondest — faintest — latest  accents  hear: 
Grief  for  the  dead  not  Virtue  can  reprove; 
Then  give  me  all  I  ever  ask'd— a  tear. 
The  first — last — sole  reward  of  so  much  love!" 

He  pass'd  the  portal— cross'd  the  corridor, 

And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  the  strain  gave  o'er: 

"  My  own  Medora!  sure  thy  song  is  sad — " 

"  In  Conrad's  absence  wouldst  thou  have  it  glad? 

Without  thine  ear  to  listen  to  my  lay, 

Still  must  my  song  my  thoughts,  my  soul  betray: 

Still  must  each  accent  to  my  bosom  suit. 

My  heart  unhush'd- although  my  lips  were  mute! 

Oh!  many  a  night,  on  this  lone  couch  reclined, 

My  dreaming  fear  with  storms  hath  wingd  the  wind, 

And  deem'd  the  breath  that  faintly  fanned  thy  sail 

The  murmuring  prelude  of  the  ruder  gale; 

Though  soft,  it  seem'd  the  low  prophetic  dirge. 

That  moum'd  thee  floating  on  the  savage  surge: 

Still  would  I  rise  to  rouse  the  beacon-fire, 

Lest  spies  less  true  should  let  the  blaze  expire: 

And  many  a  restless  hour  outwatoh'd  each  star, 

And  morning  came — and  still  thou  wert  afar. 

Oh !  how  the  chill  blast  on  my  bosom  blew, 

And  day  broke  dreary  on  niytronbled  view, 

And  still  1  gazed  and  gazed— and  not  a  prow 

Was  granted  to  my  tears — my  truth — my  vow! 

.* Hb* 


CANTO  1.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


11 


At  length — 'twas  noon — I  hail'd  and  blest  the  mast 
That  met  my  sight — it  neared — Alas!  it  pass'd! 
Another  came — O  God!  'twas  thine  at  last! 
Would  that  those  days  were  over!  wilt  thou  ne'er, 
My  Conrad!  learn  the  joys  of  peace  to  share  ? 
Sure  thou  hast  more  than  wealth,  and  many  a  home 
As  bright  as  this  invites  us  not  to  roam: 
Thou  know'st  it  is  not  peril  that  I  fear, 
I  only  tremble  when  thou  art  not  here; 
Then  not  for  mine,  but  that  far  dearer  life, 
Which  flies  from  love  and  languishes  for  strife — 
How  strange  that  heart,  to  me  so  tender  still, 
Should  war  with  nature  and  its  better  will!" 


Yea,  strange  indeed- 
changed; 


-that  heart  hath  long  been 


Worm-like  'twas  trampled — adder-like  avenged, 
Without  one  hope  on  earth  beyond  thy  love. 
And  scarce  a  glimpse  of  mercy  from  above. 
Yet  the  same  feeling  which  thou  dost  condemn, 
My  very  love  to  thee  is  hate  to  them, 
So  closely  mingling  here,  that  disentwined, 
I  cease  to  love  thee  when  I  love  mankind: 
Yet  dread  not  this— the  proof  of  all  the  past 
Assures  the  future  that  my  love  will  last; 
But— O  Medora!  nerve  thy  gentler  heart. 
This  hour  again— but  not  for  long — we  part." 

"This  hour  we  part! — my  heart  foreboded  this! 

Thus  ever  fade  my  fairy  dreams  of  bliss. 

This  hour — it  cannot  be — this  hour  away! 

Yon  bark  hath  hardly  anchor'd  in  the  bay: 

Her  consort  still  is  absent,  and  her  crew 

Have  need  of  rest  before  they  toil  anew: 

My  love  !  thou  mock'st  my  weakness;  and  wouldst  steel 

My  breast  before  the  time  when  it  must  feel; 

But  trifle  now  no  more  with  my  distress. 

Such  mirth  hath  less  of  play  than  bitterness. 

Be  silent  Conrad! — dearest!  come  and  share 

The  feast  these  hands  delighted  to  prepare; 

Light  toil!  to  cull  and  dress  thy  frugal  fare! 

See,  I  have  pluck'd  the  fruit  that  promised  best. 

And  where  not  sure,  perplex'd,  but  pleased,  I  guess'd 

At  such  as  seem'd  the  fairest:  thrice  the  hill 

My  steps  have  wound  to  try  the  coolest  rill; 

Yes!  thy  sherbet  to-night  will  sweetly  flow, 

See  how  it  sparkles  in  it's  vase  of  snow! 

The  grape's  gay  juice  thy  bosom  never  cheers; 

Thou  more  than  Moslem  when  the  cup  appears: 

Think  not  I  mean  to  chide— for  I  rejoice 

What  others  deem  a  penance  is  thy  choice. 

But  come,  the  board  is  spread;  our  silver  lamp 

Is  trimm'd,  and  heeds  not  the  Sirocco's  damp. 

Then  shall  my  handmaids  while  the  time  along, 

And  join  with  me  the  dance,  or  wake  the  song; 

Or  my  guitar,  which  still  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

Shall  soothe  or  lull — or,  should  it  vex  thine  ear. 


-* — a-^ 

12  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  i. 

We'll  turn  the  tale,  by  Ariosto  told, 

Of  fair  Olympia  loved  and  left  of  old.* 

Why — ^thou  wert  worse  than  he  who  broke  his  vow 

To  that  lost  damsel,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  now ; 

Or  even  that  traitor  chief — I've  seen  thee  smile, 

When  the  clear  sky  show'd  Ariadne's  Isle, 

Which  I  have  pointed  from  these  cliffs  the  while: 

And  thus,  half  sportive,  half  in  fear,  I  said. 

Lest  Time  should  raise  that  doubt  to  more  than  dread, 

Thus  Conrad,  too,  will  quit  me  for  the  main: 

And  he  deceived  me — for — he  came  againi" 

"Again— again— and  oft  again— my  love! 

If  there  be  life  below,  and  hope  above. 

He  will  return — but  now  the  moments  bring 

The  time  of  parting  with  redoubled  wing : 

The  why — the  where — what  boots  it  now  to  tell? 

Since  all  must  end  in  that  wild  word— fare  well  1 

Yet  would  I  fain — did  time  allow — disclose — 

Fear  not— these  are  no  formidable  foes; 

And  here  shall  watch  a  more  than  wonted  guard, 

For  sudden  siege  and  long  defence  prepared: 

Nor  be  thou  lonely — though  thy  lord'  s  away, 

Our  matrons  and  thy  handmaids  with  thee  stay; 

And  this  thy  comfort — that  when  next  we  meet, 

Security  shall  make  repose  more  sweet. 

List! — tis  the  bugle" — Juan  shrilly  blew — 

"  One  kiss — one  more — another — Oh!  Adieu!" 

She  rose — she  sprung— she  clung  to  his  embrace, 
Till  his  heart  heaved  beneath  her  hidden  f  jjcc. 
He  dared  not  raise  to  his  that  deep-blue  eye, 
Which  downcast  droop'd  in  tearless  agony. 
Her  long  fair  hair  lay  floating  o'er  his  arms, 
In  all  the  wildness  of  dishevell'd  charms; 
Scarce  beat  that  bosom  where  his  image  dwelt 
So  full — tfuU  feeling  seem'd  almost  unielt! 
Hark — peals  the  thunder  of  the  signal-gun! 
It  told  'twas  sunset — and  he  cursed  that  sun. 
Again — again — that  form  he  madly  press'd 
Which  mutely  clasp'd,  imploringly  caress'd! 
And  tottering  to  the  couch  his  bride  he  bore, 
One  moment  gazed — as  if  to  gaze  no  more; 
Felt — that  for  him  earth  held  but  her  alone, 
Kiss'd  her  cold  forehead— turn' d— is  Conrad  gone? 


"And  is  he  gone?"— on  sudden  solitude 

How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude  I 

"  'Twas  but  an  instant  past— and  here  he  stood! 

And  now" — without  the  portal's  porch  she  rush'd, 

And  then  at  length  her  tears  in  freedom  gush'd; 

Big— bright— and  fast,  unknown  to  her  they  fell; 

But  Btill  her  lips  refused  to  send— "Farewell!" 

♦"Orlando  Furioso."  Canto  10. 

•^  SK 


*it- 


■BBWEBBBBBW 


CA»TO  I.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


13 


For  in  that  word — that  fatal  word — howe'er 

We  promise — hope — believe — there  breathes  despair. 

O'er  every  feature  of  that  still,  pale  face, 

Had  sorrow  flx'd  what  time  can  ne'er  erase: 

The  tender  blue  of  that  large  loving  eye 

Grew  frozen  with  its  gaze  on  vacancy. 

Till — oh,  how  far! — it  caught  a  glimpse  of  him. 

And  then  it  flow'd— and  frenzied  seem'd  to  swim, 

Through  those  long,  dark,  and  glistening  lashes  dew'd 

With  drops  of  sadness  oft  to  be  renew'd. 

"  He's  gone!" — against  her  heart  that  hand  is  driven, 

Convulsed  and  quick— then  gently  raised  to  heaven; 

She  look'd  and  saw  the  heavmg  of  the  main; 

The  white  sail  set — she  dared  not  look  again; 

But  turn'd  with  sickening  soul  within  the  gate — 

"It  is  no  dream— and  I  am  desolate!" 


XVI. 

From  crag  to  crag  descending — swiftly  sped 

Stem  Conrad  down,  nor  once  he  turn'd  his  head; 

But  shrunk  whene'r  the  windings  of  his  way 

Forced  on  his  eye  what  he  would  not  survey, 

His  lone,  but  lovely  dwelling  on  the  steep, 

That  hail'd  him  first  when  homeward  from  the  deep: 

And  she — the  dim  and  melancholy  star. 

Whose  ray  of  beauty  reach'd  him  from  afar. 

On  her  he  must  not  gaze,  he  must  not  think, 

There  he  might  rest— but  on  Destruction's  brink; 

Yet  once  almost  he  stopp'd — and  nearly  gave 

His  fate  to  chance,  his  projects  to  the  wave; 

But  no — it  must  not  be — a  worthy  chief 

May  melt,  but  not  betray  to  woman's  grief. 

He  sees  his  bark,  he  notes  how  fair  the  wind. 

And  sternly  gathers  all  his  might  of  mind: 

Again  he  hurries  on — and  as  he  hears 

The  clang  of  tumult  vibrate  on  his  ears, 

The  busy  sounds,  the  bustle  of  the  shore, 

The  shout,  the  signal,  and  the  dashing  oar; 

As  marks  his  eye  the  sea-boy  on  the  mast. 

The  anchors  rise,  the  sails  unfurling  fast. 

The  waving  kerchiefs  of  the  crowd  that  urge 

That  mute  adieu  to  those  who  stem  the  surge; 

And  more  than  all,  his  blood-red  flag  aloft. 

He  marvell'd  how  his  heart  could  seem  so  soft. 

Fire  in  his  glance,  and  wildness  in  his  breast. 

He  feels  of  all  his  former  self  possest; 

He  bounds — he  flies — until  his  footsteps  reach 

The  verge  where  ends  the  cliff,  begins  the  beach. 

There  checks  his  speed;  but  pauses  less  to  breathe 

The  breezy  freshness  of  the  deep  beneath, 

Than  there  his  wonted  statelier  step  renew; 

Nor  rush,  disturb'd  by  haste,  to  vulgar  view: 

For  well  had  Conrad  learn'd  to  curb  the  crowd, 

By  arts  that  veil,  and  oft  preserve  the  proud; 

His  was  the  lofty  port,  the  distant  mien. 

That  seems  to  shun  the  sight — and  awes  if  seen: 


•i 


ih^ 


^ ^ 

U  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  i. 

The  solemn  aspect,  and  the  high-born  eye, 
That  checks  low  mirth,  but  lacks  not  courtesy; 
All  these  he  wielded  to  command  assent: 
But  where  he  wish'd  to  win,  so  well  unbent, 
That  kindness  cancell'd  fear  in  those  who  heard, 
And  others'  gifts  show'd  mean  beside  his  word, 
When  echo'd  to  the  heart  as  from  his  own, 
His  deep  yet  tender  melody  of  tone: 
But  such  was  foreign  tcT  his  wonted  mood, 
He  cared  not  what  tie  soften 'd  but  subdued; 
The  evil  passions  of  his  youth  had  made 
Him  value  less  who  loved— than  what  obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around  him  mustering  ranged  his  ready  guard. 
Before  him  Juan  stands — "Are  all  prepared?" 

"  They  are— nay,  more — embark'd:  the  latest  boat 
Waits  but  my  chief—" 

"  My  sword,  and  my  capote." 
Soon  firmly  girded  on  and  lightly  slung, 
His  belt  and  cloak  were  o'er  his  shoulders  flung: 
"  Call  Pedro  here!" — He  comes— and  Conrad  bends, 
With  all  the  courtesy  he  deign'd  his  friends; 
"  Receive  these  tablets,  and  peruse  with  care, 
Words  of  high  trust  and  truth  are  graven  there; 
Double  the  guard,  and  when  Anselmo's  bark 
Arrives,  let  him  alike  these  orders  mark: 
In  three  days  (serve  the  breeze)  the  sun  shall  shine 
On  our  return — till  then  all  peace  be  thine!" 
This  said,  his  brother  Pirate's  hand  he  wrung, 
Then  to  his  boat  with  haughty  gesture  sprung, 
riash'd  the  dipt  oars,  and  sparkling  with  the  stroke, 
Around  the  waves'  phosphoric*  brightness  broke; 
They  gain  the  vessel — on  the  deck  he  stands. 
Shrieks  the  shrill  whistle — ply  the  busy  hands — 
He  marks  how  well  the  ship  her  helm  obeys. 
How  gallant  all  her  crew — and  deigns  to  praise. 
His  eyes  of  pride  to  young  Gonsalvo  turn — 
Why  doth  he  start,  and  inly  seem  to  mourn? 
Alas!  those  eyes  behold  his  rocky  tower. 
And  live  a  moment  o'er  the  parting  hour; 
She — his  Medora — did  she  mark  the  prow? 
Ah!  never  loved  he  half  so  much  as  now! 
But  much  must  yet  be  done  ere  dawn  of  -day — 
Again  he  mans  himself  and  turns  away; 
Down  to  the  cabin  with  Gonsalvo  bends. 
And  there  unfolds  his  plan — his  means — and  ends; 
Before  them  bums  the  lamp,  and  spreads  the  chart, 
And  all  that  speaks  and  aids  the  naval  art; 
They  to  the  midnight  watch  protract  debate; 
To  anxious  eyes  what  hour  is  ever  late? 

*  By  night,  particularly  in  a  warm  latitude,  every  stroke  of  the 
oar,  every  motion  of  the  boat  or  ship,  is  followed  by  a  slight  flash 
like  sheet  lightning  from  the  water. 

*- 


CANTO  II.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Meantime,  the  steady  breeze  serenely  blew, 
And  fast  and  falcon-like  the  vessel  flew; 
Pass'd  the  high  headlands  of  each  clustering  isle, 
To  gain  their  port — long— long  ere  morning  smile: 
And  soon  the  night-glass  through  the  narrow  bay 
Discovers  where  the  Pacha's  galleys  lay. 
Count  they  each  sail— and  mark  how  there  supine 
The  lights  in  vain  o'er  heedless  Moslem  shine. 
Secure,  unnoted,  Conrad's  prow  pass'd  by. 
And  anchor' d  where  his  ambush  meant  to  lie; 
Screen'd  from  espial  by  the  jutting  cape. 
That  rears  on  high  its  rude  fantastic  shape. 
Then  rose  his  band  to  duty — not  from  sleep — 
Equipp'd  for  deeds  alike  on  land  or  deep; 
While  lean'd  their  leader  o'er  the  fretting  flood, 
And  calmly  talk'd — and  yet  he  talk'd  of  bloodi 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 
'Conosceste  i  dubiosi  desiri?" — Dante. 


+ 


15 


In  Coron's  bay  floats  many  a  galley  light. 
Through  Coron's  lattices  the  lamps  are  bright, 
For  Seyd,  the  Pacha,  makes  a  feast  to-night: 
A  feast  for  promised  triumph  yet  to  come, 
When  he  shall  drag  the  fetter' d  Rovers  home; 
This  hath  he  sworn  by  Alia  and  his  sword. 
And  faithful  to  his  firman  and  his  word. 
His  summon'd  prows  collect  along  the  coast, 
And  great  the  gathering  crews,  and  loud  the  boast; 
Already  shared  the  captives  and  the  prize. 
Though  far  the  distant  foe  they  thus  despise; 
'Tis  but  to  sail — no  doubt  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  see  the  Pirates  bound — their  haven  won! 
Meantime  the  watch  may  slumber,  if  they  will. 
Nor  only  wake  to  war,  but  dreaming  kill. 
Though  all,  who  can,  disperse  on  shore  and  seek 
To  flesh  their  glowing  valor  on  the  Greek; 
How  well  such  deed  becomes  the  turban'd  brave 
To  bare  the  sabre's  edge  before  a  slave! 
Infest  his  dwelling — but  forbear  to  slay, 
Their  arms  are  strong,  yet  merciful  to-cay, 
And  do  not  deign  to  smite  because  they  mayl 
Unless  some  gay  caprice  suggests  the  blow, 
To  keep  in  practice  for  the  coming  foe. 
Revel  and  rout  the  evening  hours  beguile, 
And  they  who  wish  to  wear  a  head  must  smile; 
For  Moslem  mouths  produce  their  choicest  cheer. 
And  hoard  their  curses,  till  the  coast  is  clear. 


High  in  his  hall  reclines  the  turban'd  Seyd; 
Around — the  bearded  chiefs  he  came  to  lead. 
Removed  the  banquet,  and  the  last  pilafE — 
Forbidden  draughts,  'tis  said,  he  dared  to  quaff, 


Hh 


16 


THE  CORSAIR. 


[canto  il 


Though  to  the  rest  the  sober  berry's  juice,* 
The  slaves  bear  round  for  rigid  Moslem's  use; 
The  long  Chibouques  t  dissolving  cloud  supply, 
While  dance  the  Almas  J  to  wild  minstrelsy. 
The  rising  mom  will  view  the  chiefs  embark; 
But  waves  are  somewhat  treacherous  in  the  dark; 
And  revellers  may  more  securely  sleep 
On  silken  couch  than  o'er  the  rugged  deep, 
Feast  there  who  can— nor  combat  till  they  must, 
And  less  to  conquest  than  to  Korans  trust; 
And  yet  the  numbers  crowded  in  his  host 
Might  warrant  more  than  even  the  Pacha's  boast. 


With  cautious  reverence  from  the  outer  gate, 
Slow  stalks  the  slave,  whose  office  there  to  wait, 
Bows  his  bent  head— his  hand  salutes  the  floor. 
Ere  yet  his  tongue  the  trusted  tidings  bore: 
"A  captive  Dervise,  from  the  Pirate's  nest 
Escaped,  is  here — himself  would  tell  the  rest.''  § 
He  took  the  sign  from  Seyd's  assenting  eye, 
And  led  the  holy  man  in  silence  nigh. 
His  arms  were  folded  on  his  dark-green  vest, 
His  step  was  feeble,  and  his  look  deprest; 
Yet  worn  he  seem'd  of  hardship  more  than  years, 
And  pale  his  cheek  with  penance,  not  from  fears. 
Vow^d  to  his  God— his  sable  locks  he  wore, 
And  these  his  lofty  cap  rose  proudly  o'er; 
Around  his  form  his  loose  long  robe  was  thrown, 
And  wrapt  a  breast  bestow'd  on  Heaven  alone; 

♦  Coffee.  t  Pipe.  t  Dancing-girls. 

§  It  has  been  objected  that  Conrad's  entering  disguised  as  a  spy  is 
out  of  nature;— perhaps  so.    I  find  something  not  unlike  it  in  histoiy. 

"Anxious  to  explore  with  his  own  eyes  the  state  of  the  Vandals, 
Majorian  ventured,  after  ^lisguisiiig  the  color  of  his  hair,  to  visit 
Carthage  in  the  character  of  his  own  ambassador;  and  Grenseric 
was  afterwards  mortified  by  the  discovery  that  he  had  entertained 
and  dismissed  the  Emperor  of  the  Romans.  Such  an  anecdote  may 
be  rejected  as  an  improbable  fiction ;  but  it  is  a  fiction  which  would 
not  have  been  imagined  unless  in  the  life  of  a  hero.  "—Gibbon,  De- 
cline and  Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  180. 

That  Conrad  is  a  character  not  altogether  out  of  nature,  I  shall 
attempt  to  prove  by  some- historical  coincidences  which  I  have  met 
with  smce  writing  "The  Corsair." 

"Eccelinprisonnier,"  dit  Rolandini,  "s'enfermoit  dans  un  silence 
mena^ant,  il  flxoit  sur  la  terre  son  visage  f6roce,  et  ne  donnoit  point 
d'essor  il  sa  profonde  indignation.— De  toutes  parts  cependantlessol- 
dats  et  les  peuplesaccouroieiit;  ils  vouloient  voir  cet  homnie,  jadis 
si  puissant,  et  la  joie  universelle  6clatoit  de  toutes  parts. 
Eccelin  6toitd'une  petite  taille;  niais  tout  I'aspect  de  sa  personne, 
tons  ses  mouvemens,  indiquoient  un  soldat.— Son  lan^age  6toIt 
amer,  son  d6portement  sviperbe— et  par  son  seul  6gard,  il  faisoit 
trembler  les  plus  hardis.  "—Stsmonrfi.  tome  iii.  pp.  219.  220. 

"  Gizericus  (Genseric,  king  of  the  Vandals,  the  conqueror  of  both 
Carthage  and  Rome)  statura  meiliocris.  et  equi  casu  claudicans, 
animo  profundus,  sermone  rarus,  luxuri»e  contemptt^r,  ira  turbidus, 
habendi  cupidus.  adsolicitandas  gentes  provideutissimus,"  etc.,  etc. 
— Jomandes  de  licbiis  Geticis,  c.  ii<i. 

I  beg  leave  to  quote  these  gloomy  realities  to  keep  in  countenance 
my  Giaour  and  Corsair. 


♦iJ- 


4 


CIkTO  II.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


Submibsive,  yet  with  self-possession  mann'd, 
He  calmly  met  the  curious  eyes  that  scann'd; 
And  question  of  his  coming  fain  would  seek, 
Before  the  Pacha's  will  allow' d  to  speak. 


ih^ 


17 


"  Whence  com'st  thou,  Dervise?" 

"  From  the  outlaws'  den 
A  fugitive—" 

"Thy  capture  where  and  when?" 
"From  Scalanovo's  port  to  Scio's  isle, 
The  Saick  was  bound ;  but  Alia  did  not  smile 
Upon  our  course — the  Moslem  merchant's  gains 
The  Rovers  won:  our  limbs  have  worn  their  chains. 
I  had  no  death  to  fear,  nor  wealth  to  boast, 
Beyond  the  wandering  freedom  which  I  lost;, 
At  length  a  fisher's  humble  boat  by  night 
Afforded  hope,  and  offer'd  chance  of  flight: 
I  seized  the  hour,  and  find  my  safety  here — 
"With  thee — most  mighty  Pacha!  who  can  fear?" 

"How  speed  the  outlaws?  stand  they  well  prepared 
Their  plunder'd  wealth,  and  robbers'  rock  to  guard? 
Dream  they  of  this  our  preparation,  doom'd 
To  view  with  fire  their  scorpion  nest  consumed?" 

"  Pacha!  the  fetter'd  captive's  mourning  eye, 

That  weeps  for  fiight,  but  ill  can  play  the  spy; 

I  only  heard  the  reckless  waters  roar. 

Those  waves  that  would  not  bear  me  from  the  shore; 

I  only  mark'd  the  glorious  sun  and  sky. 

Too  bright — too  blue— for  my  captivity; 

And  felt — that  all  which  Freedom's  bosom  cheers, 

Must  break  my  chain  before  it  dried  my  tears. 

This  may'st  thou  judge,  at  least,  from  my  escape. 

They  little  deem  of  aught  in  peril's  shape; 

Else  vainly  had  I  pray'd  or  sought  the  chance 

That  leads  me  here — if  eyed  with  vigilance: 

The  careless  guard  that  did  not  see  me  fly. 

May  watch  as  idly  when  thy  power  is  nigh. 

Pacha! — my  limbs  are  faint — and  nature  craves 

Food  for  my  hunger,  rest  from  tossing  waves: 

Permit  my  absence — peace  be  with  thee!    Peace 

With  all  around! — now  grant  repose — release." 

*'  Stay,  Dervise!  I  have  more  to  question — stay, 
I  do  command  thee — sit — dost  hear? — obey! 
More  I  must  ask,  and  food  the  slaves  shall  bring; 
Thou  Shalt  not  pine  where  all  are  banqueting: 
The  supper  done — prepare  thee  to  reply. 
Clearly  and  full— I  love  not  mystery." 

^Twere  vain  to  guess  what  shook  the  pious  man 
Who  look'd  not  lovingly  on  that  Divan; 
Now  show'dhigh  relish  for  the  banquet  prest, 
And  less  respect  for  every  fellow-guest. 
'Twas  but  a  moment's  peevish  hectic  past 
Along  his  cheek,  and  tranquillized  as  fast: 


Ht' 


"1  fr^ 


-« ft- 

18  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  li. 

He  sate  him  down  in  silence,  and  his  look 
Resumed  the  calmness  which  before  forsook: 
The  feast  was  usher'd  in — but  sumptuous  fare 
He  shunn'd  as  if  some  poison  mingled  there. 
For  one  so  long  condemn'd  to  toil  and  fast, 
Methinks  he  strangely  spares  the  rich  repast. 

*'  What  ails  thee,  Dervise?  eat — dost  thou  suppose 
This  feast  a  Christian's?  or  my  friends  thy  foes? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt?  that  sacred  pledge, 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite. 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight!" 

"Salt  seasons  dainties— and  my  food  is  still 
The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill; 
And  my  stem  vow  and  Order's*  laws  oppose 
To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes; 
It  may  seem  strange— if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 
That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head; 
But  for  thy  sway— nay  more— thy  Sultan's  throne, 
I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet — save  alone; 
Infringed  our  Order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 
To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage.'' 

"  Well — as  thou  wilt — ascetic  as  thou  art — 

One  question  answer;  then  in  peace  depart. 

How  many? — Ha!  it  cannot  sure  be  day? 

What  star— what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay? 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire!— away— away!  - 

Ho!  treachery!  my  guards!  my  scimitar! 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames— and  I  afar! 

Accursed  Dervise! — these  thy  tidings— thou 

Some  villain  spy— seize — cleave  him— slay  him  nowl" 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appall'd  the  sight: 
Up  rose  that  Dervise — not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dash'd  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away — 
Shone  his  mail'd  breast,  and  flash'd  his  sabre's  ray! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom 
Glared  on  the  Moslems'  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high,  and  torches  from  below! 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  helll 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  flery  waves; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry. 
They  seize  that  Dervise! — seize  on  Zatanaiif 


*  The  dervises  are  in  colleges,  and  of  different  orders,  as  the  monks. 
t  Satan. 


■IK 


+ 


CANTO  II.]  THE  CORSAIR.  19 

He  saw  their  terror— check'd  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obey'd, 
The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made; 
He  saw  their  terror— from  his  baldric  drew 
His  bugle— brief  the  blast— but  shrilly  blew: 
'Tis  answer'd— "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew! 
Why  did  1  doubt  their  quickness  of  career? 
And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here?" 
Sweeps  his  long  arm— that  sabre's  whirling  sway 
Sheds  fast  atonement  for  its  first  delay; 
Completes  his  fury  what  their  fear  begun, 
And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 
The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 
And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head: 
Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelm'd  with  rage,  surprise, 
Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 
No  craven  he — and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow. 
So  much  confusion  magnifies  his  foe! 
His  blazing  galleys  still  distract  his  sight, 
He  tore  his  beard,  and  foaming  fled  the  flght;* 
For  now  the  pirates  pass'd  the  Harem  gate, 
And  burst  within — and  it  were  death  to  wait; 
Where  wild  Amazement  shrieking— kneeling  throws 
The  sword  aside— in  vain— the  blood  overflows! 
The  Corsairs  pouring,  haste  to  where  within 
Invited  Conrad's  bugle,  and  the  din 
Of  groaning  victims,  and  wild  cries  for  life, 
Proclaim'd  how  well  he  did  the  work  of  strife. 
They  shout  to  flnd  him  grim  and  lonely  there, 
A  glutted  tiger  mangling  in  his  lair! 
But  short  their  greeting— shorter  his  reply — 
"  'Tis  well— but  Seyd  escapes— and  he  must  die- 
Much  hath  been  done— but  more  remains  to  do— 
Their  galleys  blaze — why  not  their  city  too?" 

V. 

Quick  at  the  word — ^they  seized  him  each  a  torch, 
And  fire  the  dome  from  minaret  to  porch. 
A  stem  delight  was  fix'd  in  Conrad's  eye, 
But  sudden  sunk — for  on  his  ear  the  cry 
Of  woman  struck,  and  like  a  deadly  knell 
Knock'd  at  that  heart  unmoved  by  battle's  yell. 
"Oh!  burst  the  Harem — wrong  not  on  your  lives 
One  female  form — remember — we  have  wives. 
On  them  such  outrage  Vengeance  will  repay; 
Man  is  our  foe,  and  such  'tis  ours  to  slay; 
But  still  we  spare— must  spare  the  weaker  prey. 
Oh!  I  forgot— but  Heaven  will  not  forgive, 
If  at  my  word  the  helpless  cease  to  live: 
Follow  who  will — I  go — we  yet  have  time 
Our  souls  to  lighten  of  at  least  a  crime." 

*  A  common  and  not  very  novel  effect  of  Mussulman  anerer.  See 
"  Prince  Eugene's  IMemoirs,"i).  24.  "  The  Seraskier  received  a  wound 
in  the  thigh;  he  plucked  up  his  beard  by  the  roots,  because  he  was 
obliged  to  quit  the  field." 

■« *♦ 


20  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  ii. 

He  climbs  the  crackling  stair — he  burst  the  door, 
Nor  feels  his  feet  glow  scorching  with  the  floor; 
His  breath  choked  gasping  with  the  volumed  smoke, 
But  still  from  room  to  room  his  way  he  broke. 
They  search — they  find — they  save;  with  lusty  arms 
Each  bears  a  prize  of  unregarded  charms; 
Calm  their  loud  fears;  sustain  their  sinking  frames 
With  all  the  care  defenceless  beauty  claims: 
So  well  could  Conrad  tame  their  fiercest  mood, 
And  check  the  very  hands  with  gore  imbrued. 
But  who  is  she?  whom  Conrad's  arms  convey 
From  reeking  pile  and  combat's  wreck — away — 
Who  but  the  love  of  him  he  dooms  to  bleed? 
The  Harem  queen — but  still  the  slave  of  Seyd! 

VI. 

Brief  time  had  Conrad  now  to  greet  Gulnare,* 

Few  words  to  reassure  the  trembling  fair; 

For  in  that  pause  compassion  snatch'd  from  war, 

The  foe  before  retiring,  fast  and  far, 

With  wonder  saw  their  footsteps  unpursued, 

First  slowlier  fled — then  rallied — then  withstood. 

This  Seyd  perceives,  then  first  perceives  how  few, 

Compared  with  his,  the  Corsair's  roving  crew, 

And  blushes  oer  his  error,  as  he  eyes 

The  ruin  Avrought  by  panic  and  surprise. 

Alia  il  Alia!     vengeance  swells  the  cry — 

Shame  mounts  to  rage  that  must  atone  or  die! 

And  flame  for  flame  and  blood  for  blood  must  tell, 

The  tide  of  triumph  ebbs  that  flow'd  too  well — 

When  wrath  returns  to  renovated  strife. 

And  those  who  fought  for  conquest  strike  for  life. 

Conrad  beheld  the  danger— he  beheld 

His  followers  faint  by  freshening  foes  repell'd: 

"  One  effort — one — to  break  the  circling  host!" 

They  form— unite — charge — waver— all  is  lost! 

Within  a  narrower  ring  compress'd,  beset. 

Hopeless,  not  heartless,  strive  and  struggle  yet — 

Ah!  now  they  fight  in  firmest  file  no  more, 

Hemm'd  in — cut  off — cleft  down — and  trampled  o'er; 

But  each  strikes  singly,  silently,  and  home. 

And  sinks  outwearied  rather  than  o'ercome. 

His  last  faint  quittance  rendering  with  his  breath. 

Till  the  blade  glimmers  in  the  grasp  of  death! 

VII. 

But  first,  ere  came  the  rallying  host  to  blows, 
And  rank  to  rank,  and  hand  to  hand  oppose, 
Gulnare  and  all  her  Harem  handmaids  freed. 
Safe  in  the  dome  of  one  who  held  their  creed, 
By  Conrad's  mandate  safely  were  bestow'd, 
And  dried  those  tears  for  life  and  fame  that  flow'd. 
And  wlu'ii  that  dark-eyed  lady,  young  Gulnare, 
Recall'd  those  thoughts  late  wandering  in  despaii, 

♦  Gulnare,  a  female  name.    It  means,  literally,  the  flower  of  the 
pomegranate. 

♦« -* 


^ -^ 

CANTO  II.]  THE  CORSAIR.  21 

Much  did  she  marvel  o'er  the  courtesy 

That  smooth'd  his  accents;  soften'd  in  his  eye: 

'Twas  strange — that  robber  thus  with  gore  bedew'd 

Seem'd  gentler  then  than  Seyd  in  fondest  mood. 

The  Pacha  woo'd  as  if  he  deem'd  the  slave 

Must  seem  delighted  with  the  heart  he  gave; 

The  Corsair  vow'd  protection,  soothed  affright, 

As  if  his  homage  were  a  woman's  right. 

"  The  wish  is  wrong — ^nay,  worse  for  female — vain: 

Yet  much  I  long  to  view  that  chief  again; 

If  but  to  thank  for,  what  jny  fear  forgot, 

The  life— my  loving  lord  remember' d  notl" 


And  him  she  saw,  where  thickest  carnage  spread, 

But  gather'd  breathing  from  the  happier  dead; 

Far  from  his  band,  and  battling  with  a  host 

That  deem  ri^ht  dearly  won  the  field  he  lost, 

Fell'd — bleeding — baffled  of  the  death  he  sought. 

And  snatch'd  to  expiate  all  the  ills  he  wrought; 

Presefved  to  linger  and  to  live  in  vain, 

"While  Vengeance  pondered  o'er  new  plans  of  pain, 

And  stanch'd  the  blood  she  saves  to  shed  again — 

But  drop  by  drop,  for  Seyd's  unglutted  eye 

Would  doom  him  ever  dying — ne'er  to  die! 

Can  this  be  he  ?  triumphant  late  she  saw. 

When  his  red  hand's  wild  gesture  waved,  a  law  ! 

'Tis  he  indeed— disarm' d  but  undeprest, 

His  sole  regret  the  life  he  still  possest; 

His  wounds  too  slight,  though  taken  with  that  will, 

Which  would  have  kissed  the  hand  that  then  could  kill. 

Oh,  were  there  none,  of  all  the  many  given. 

To  send  his  soul — ^he  scarcely  ask'd  to  heaven! 

Must  he  alone  of  all  retain  his  breath, 

Who  more  than  all  had  striven  and  struck  for  death? 

He  deeply  felt — what  mortal  hearts  must  feel, 

When  thus  reversed  on  faithless  Fortune's  wheel. 

For  crimes  committed,  and  the  victor's  threat 

Of  lingering  tortures  to  repay  the  debt — 

He  deeply,  darkly  felt;  but  evil  pride 

That  led  to  perpetrate— now  nerves  to  hide. 

Still  in  his  stern  and  self-collected  mien 

A  conqueror's  more  than  captive's  air  is  seen; 

Though  faint  with  wasting  toil  and  stiffening  wound. 

But  few  that  saw — so  calmly  gazed  around: 

Though  the  far-shouting  of  the  distant  crowd. 

Their  tremors  o'er,  rose  insolently  loud. 

The  better  warriors  who  beheld  him  near. 

Insulted  not  the  foe  who  taught  them  fear; 

And  the  grim  guards  that  to  his  durance  led, 

In  silence  eyed  him  with  a  secret  dread. 


The  Leech  was  sent — but  not  In  mercy — there. 
To  note  how  much  the  life  yet  l&ft  could  bear; 


♦* 


^h 


THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  ii. 

He  found  enough  to  load  with  heaviest  chain, 

And  promise  feeling  for  the  wrench  of  pain : 

To-morrow — yea,  to-morrow's  evening  sun 

Will  sinking  see  impalement's  pangs  begun, 

And  rising  with  the  wonted  blush  of  mom 

Behold  how  well  or  ill  those  pangs  are  borne. 

Of  torments  this  the  longest  and  the  worst. 

Which  add3  all  other  agony  to  thirst, 

That  day  by  day  death  still  forbears  to  slake, 

While  famish'd  vultures  flit  around  the  stake. 

"OhI  water— water!"--smiling  Hate  denies 

The  victim's  prayer— for  if  he  drinks— he  dies. 

This  was  his  doom  : — the  Leech,  the  guard,  were  gone, 

And  left  proud  Conrad  fetter'd  and  alone. 


'Twere  vain  to  paint  to  what  his  feelings  grew — 

It  even  were  doubtful  if  their  victim  knew. 

There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind. 

When  all  its  elements  convulsed — combioed — 

Lie  dark  and  jarring  with  perturbed  force, 

And  gnashing  with  impenitent  Remorse; 

That  juggling  fiend— who  never  spake  before— 

But  cries,  **I  warn'd  thee!"  when  the  deed  is  o'er. 

Vain  voice!  the  spirit  burning  but  unbent. 

May  writhe— rebel— the  weak  alone  repent! 

Even  in  that  lonely  hour  when  most  it  feels, 

And,  to  itself,  all— all  that  self  reveals. 

No  single  passion,  and  no  ruling  thought 

That  leaves  the  rest  as  once  unseen,  unsought; 

But  the  wild  prospect  when  the  soul  reviews — 

All  rushing  through  their  thousand  avenues, 

Ambition's  dreams  expiring,  love's  regret, 

Endanger'd  glory,  life  itself  beset; 

The  joy  untasted,  the  contempt  or  hate 

'Gainst  those  who  fain  would  triumph  in  our  fate; 

The  hopeless  past,  the  hasting  future  driven 

Too  quickly  on  to  guess  if  hell  or  heaven; 

Deeds,  thoughts,  and  words,  perhaps  remember'd  not 

So  keenly  tul  that  hour,  but  ne'er  forgot; 

Things  light  or  lovely  in  their  acted  time, 

But  now  to  stem  reflection  each  a  crime: 

The  withering  sense  of  evil  unreveal'd, 

Not  cankering  less  because  the  more  conceal'd — 

All,  in  a  word,  from  which  all  eyes  must  start, 

That  opening  sepulchre— the  naked  heart. 

Bears  with  its  buried  woes,  till  Pride  awake. 

To  snatch  the  mirror  from  the  soul— and  break. 

Ay— Pride  can  veil,  and  Courage  brave  it  all. 

All— all— before— beyond— the  deadliest  fall. 

Each  hath  some  fear,  and  he  who  least  betrays. 

The  only  hypocrite  deserving  praise: 

Not  the  loud  recreant  wretch  who  boasts  and  flies ; 

But  he  who  looks  on  death — and  silent  dies. 

So  steel 'd  by  pondering  o'er  his  far  cafter, 

Ue  half-way  meets  him  should  he  menace  near  ! 


^f 


t 


CANTO  II.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 

XI. 


23 


In  the  high  chamber  of  his  highest  tower 
Sate  Conrad,  fetter'd  in  the  Pacha's  power. 
His  palace  perish'd  in  the  flame — ^this  fort 
Contain'd  at  once  his  captive  and  his  court. 
Not  much  could  Conrad  of  his  sentence  blame, 
His  foe,  if  vanquished,  had  but  shared  the  same: — 
Alone  he  sate — in  solitude — and  scann'd 
His  guilty  bosom,  but  that  breast  he  mann'd: 
One  thought  alone  he  could  not — dared  not  meet — 
"Oh,  how  these  tidings  will  Medora  greet?" 
Then — only  then — ^his  clanking  hands  he  raised, 
And  strain'd  with  rage  the  chain  on  which  he  gazed; 
But  soon  he  found — or  feign'd — or  dream'd  relief, 
And  smiled  in  self-derision  of  his  grief. 
"And  now  come  torture  when  it  will — or  may, 
More  need  of  rest  to  nerve  me  for  the  day!" 
This  said,  with  languor  to  his  mat  he  crept, 
And,  whatsoe'er  his  visions,  quickly  slept. 
'Twas  hardly  midnight  when  that  fray  begun, 
For  Conrad's  plans  matured,  at  once  were  done: 
And  Havoc  loathes  so  much  the  waste  of  time, 
She  scarce  had  left  an  uncommitted  crime. 
One  hour  beheld  him  since  the  tide  he  stemm'd — 
Disguised— disco  ver'd — conquering — ^ta'en— condemn'd- 
A  chief  on  land — an  outlaw  on  the  deep — 
Destroying— saving— prison'd— and  asleep  1 


'-  XII. 

He  slept  in  calmest  seeming — for  his  breath 
Was  hush'd  so  deep — ah!  happy  if  in  death! 
He  slept — Who  o'er  his  placid  slumber  bends? 
His  foes  are  gone— and  here  he  hath  no  friends- 
Is  it  some  seraph  sent  to  grant  him  grace? 
No,  'tis  an  earthly  form  with  heavenly  face! 
Its  white  arm  raised  a  lamp — yet  gently  hid, 
Lest  the  ray  flash  abruptly  on  the  lid 
Of  that  closed  eye,  which  opens  but  to  pain, 
And  once  unclosed — but  once  may  close  again. 
That  form  with  eye  so  dark,  and  cheek  so  fair, 
And  auburn  waves  of  gemm'd  and  braided  hair; 
With  shape  of  fairy  lightness — naked  foot, 
That  shines  like  snow,  and  falls  on  earth  as  mute — 
Through  guards  and  dunnest  night  how  came  it  there? 
Ah!  rather  ask  what  will  not  woman  dare? 
Whom  youth  and  pity  lead  like  thee,  Gulnare! 
She  could  not  sleep— and  while  the  Pacha's  rest 
In  muttering  dreams  yet  saw  his  pirate-guest, 
She  left  his  side,  his  signet-ring  she  bore, 
Which  oft  in  sport  adorned  herhand  before — 
And  with  it,  scarcely  question'd,  won  her  way 
Through  drowsy  guards  that  must  that  sign  obey. 
Won>out  with  toil,  and  tired  with  changing  blow9. 
Their  eyep  had  euvied  Conrad  his  repose; 


^K 


^^ 


24 


THE  CORSAIR. 


[CiJtTO  II. 


And  chill  and  noddin?  at  the  turret  door, 
They  stretch  their  listless  limbs,  and  watch  no  more: 
Just  raised  their  heads  to  hail  the  signet-ring, 
Nor  ask  or  what  or  who  the  sign  may  bring. 


She  gazed  in  wonder,  "  Can  he  calmly  sleep, 
While  other  eyes  his  fall  or  ravage  weep? 
And  mine  in  restlessness  are  wandering  here — 
What  sudden  spell  hath  made  this  man  so  dear? 
True,  'tis  to  him  my  life,  and  moje,  I  owe, 
And  me  and  mine  he  spared  from  worse  than  woel 
'Tis  late  to  think — but  soft — his  slumber  breaks — 
How  heavily  he  sighs!— he  starts — awakes!" 

He  raised  his  head — and  dazzled  with  the  light, 
His  eye  seem'd  dubious  if  it  saw  aright: 
He  moved  his  hand — the  grating  of  his  chain 
Too  harshly  told  him  that  he  lived  again. 
"  What  is  that  formV  if  not  a  shape  of  air, 
Methinks  my  jailer's  face  shows  wondrous  fair!" 

"  Pirate!  thou  know'st  me  not — ^but  I  am  one, 
Grateful  for  deeds  thou  hast  too  rarely  done; 
Look  on  me — and  remember  her  thy  hand 
Snatch'd  from  the  flames,  and  thy  more  fearful  band. 
I  come  through  darkness — and  I  scarce  know  why — 
Yet  not  to  hurt — I  would  not  see  thee  die." 

"  If  so,  kind  ladyl  thine  the  only  eye 

That  would  not  here  in  that  gay  hope  delight: 

Theirs  is  the  chance — and  let  them  use  their  right. 

But  still  I  thank  their  courtesy  or  thine. 

That  would  confess  me  at  so  fair  a  shrine!" 

Strange  thouj^h  it  seems — yet  with  extremest  grief 

Is  link'd  a  mirth — it  doth  not  bring  relief — 

That  playfulness  of  Sorrow  ne'er  beguiles, 

And  smiles  in  bitterness— but  still  it  smiles; 

And  sometimes  with  the  wisest  and  the  best, 

Till  even  the  scaffold*  echoes  with  their  jesti 

Yet  not  the  joy  to  which  it  seems  akin — 

It  may  deceive  all  hearts,  save  that  within. 

Whate'er  it  was  that  flash'd  on  Conrad,  now 

A  laughing  wildness  half  unbent  his  brow: 

And  these  his  accents  had  a  sound  of  mirth, 

As  if  the  last  he  could  enjoy  on  earth; 

Yet  'gainst  his  nature — for  through  that  short  life, 

Few  thoughts  had  he  to  spare  from  gloom  and  strife. 

♦  In  Sir  Thomas  More,  for  instance,  on  the  scaflfold.  and  Anne  Bo- 
lej'n  in  the  Tower,  when,  grasning  her  neck,  she  remarked,  that  it* 
"  was  too  slender  to  trouble  the  headsman  much. "  During  one  part 
of  the  French  Revolution,  it  became  a  fashion  to  leave  some  "mot" 
as  a  legacy  ;  and  the  quantity  of  facetious  last  words  spoken  during: 
that  period  would  form  a  melaucholy  jest-book  of  considerable  size. 


*l^ 


*- 


CAJSTO  n.]    .  THE  CORSAIR.  25 

XIV. 

*'  Corsair  1  thy  doom  is  named — but  I  have  power 

To  soothe  the  Pacha  in  his  weaker  hour. 

Thee  would  I  spare — nay  more — would  save  thee  now, 

But  this — time — hope — nor  even  thy  strength  allow; 

But  all  I  can  I  wUl:  at  least  delay 

The  sentence  that  remits  thee  scarce  a  day. 

More  now  were  ruin — even  thyself  were  loth 

The  vain  attempt  should  bring  but  doom  to  both." 

"  YesI— loth  indeed: — my  soul  is  nerved  to  all, 

Or  fall'n  too  low  to  fear  a  further  fall: 

Tempt  not  thyself  with  peril;  me  with  hope 

Of  flight  from  foes  with  whom  I  could  not  cope: 

Unfit  to  vanquish — shall  I  meanly  fly, 

The  one  of  all  my  band  that  would  not  die? 

Yet  there  is  one — to  whom  my  memory  clings, 

Till  to  these  eyes  her  own  wild  softness  springs. 

My  sole  resources  in  the  path  I  trod 

Were  these — my  bark — my  sword — my  love — my  Godl 

The  last  I  left  in  youth — He  leaves  me  now — 

And  Man  but  works  His  will  to  lay  me  low. 

I  have  no  thought  to  mock  His  throne  with  prayer 

Wrung  from  the  coward  crouching  of  despair; 

It  is  enough — I  breathe — and  I  can  bear. 

My  sword  is  shaken  from  the  worthless  hand 

That  might  have  better  kept  so  true  a  brand; 

My  bark  is  sunk  or  captive — but  my  love — 

For  her  in  sooth  my  voice  would  mount  above: 

Oh!  she  is  all  that  still  to  earth  can  bind— 

And  this  will  break  a  heart  so  more  than  kind, 

And  blight  a  form— till  thine  appeared,  Gulnare! 

Mine  eye  ne'er  ask'dif  others  were  so  fair." 

"  Thou  lov'st  another  then? — but  what  to  me 
Is  this — 'tis  nothing — nothing  e'er  can  be: 
But  yet — thou  lov'st — and — oh!  I  envy  those 
Whose  hearts  on  hearts  as  faithful  can  repose, 
Who  never  feel  the  void — the  wandering  thought 
That  sighs  o'er  visions — such  as  mine  hath  wrought." 

"  Lady — methought  thy  love  was  his,  for  whom 
This  arm  redeemed  thee  from  a  fiery  tomb." 

"  My  love  stem  Seyd's!    Oh — no— no— not  my  love- 
Yet  much  this  heart,  that  strives  no  more,  once  strove 
To  meet  his  passion — but  it  would  not  be. 
I  felt — I  feel— love  dwells  with— with  the  free. 
I  am  a  slave,  a  favor'd  slave  at  best, 
To  share  his  splendor,  and  seem  very  blest! 
Oft  must  my  soul  the  question  undergo, 
Of—*  Dost  thou  love?'  and  burn  to  answer, '  Nol' 
Oh!  hard  it  is  that  fondness  to  sustain, 
And  struggle  not  to  feel  averse  in  vain; 
But  harder  still  the  heart's  recoil  to  bear. 
And  hide  from  one — perhaps  another  there. 

B 


* 


^ —  a 

aQ,.  THE  COUSAIK.  canto  ii. 

He  takes  the  hand  I  give  not— nor  withhold — 
Its  pulse  nor  cheek'd — nor  quieken'd — calmly  cold, 
And  when  resign'd,  it  drops  a  lifeless  weight 
From  one  I  never  loved  enough  to  hate. 
No  warmth  these  lips  return  by  his  imprest, 
And  chill'd  remembrance  shudders  o'er  the  rest. 
Yes— had  I  ever  proved  that  passion's  zeal, 
The  change  to  hatred  were  at  least  to  feel: 
But  still — ^he  goes  unmourn'd — returns  unsought — 
And  oft  when  present — absent  from  my  thought. 
Or  when  reflection  comes,  and  come  it  must — 
I  fear  that  henceforth  'twill  but  bring*  disgust; 
.  I  am  his  slave — but,  in  despite  of  pride, 
'Twere  worse  than  bondage  to  become  his  bride. 
Oh  that  this  dotage  of  his  breast  would  cease!     . 
Or  seek  another  and  give  mine  release, 
But  yesterday— I  could  have  said,  to  peace! 
Yes— if  unwonted  fondness  now  I  feign, 
Kemember — captive!  'tis  to  break  thy  chain^ 
Kepay  the  life  that  to  thy  hand  I  owe; 
To  give  thee  back  to  all  endear' d  below. 
Who  share  such  love  as  I  can  never  Icnow. 
Farewell— mom  breaks— and  I  must  now  away: 
'Twill  cost  me  dear — but  dread  no  death  to-dayl" 


She  press'd  his  fetter'd  fingers  to  her  heart, 

And  bow'd  her  head,  and  tum'd  her  to  depart, 

And  noiseless  as  a  lovely  dream  is  gone. 

And  was  she  here?  and  is  he  now  alone? 

What  gem  hath  dropp'd  and  sparkles  o'er  his  chain? 

The  tear  most  sacred,  shed  for  others'  pain, 

That  starts  at  once — bright — pure — from  Pity's  mine, 

Already  polish'dby  the  hand  divine! 

Oh!  too  convincing — dangerously  dear — 

In  woman's  eye  the  unanswerable  tear! 

That  weapon  of  her  weakness  she  can  wield, 

To  save,  subdue — ^at  once  her  spear  and  shield: 

Avoid  it — ^Virtue  ebbs  and  Wisdom  errs, 

Too  fondly  gazing  on  that  grief  of  hers! 

What  lost  a  world,  and  bade  a  hero  fly? 

The  timid  tear  in  Cleopatra's  eye. 

Yet  be  the  soft  triumvir's  fault  forgiven; 

By  this — ^how  many  lose  not  earth — but  heaven! 

Consign  their  souls  to- man's  eternal  foe. 

And  seal  their  own  to  spare  some  wanton's  woe. 


'Tis  mom — and  o'er  his  alter'd  features  play 
The  beams — without  the  hope  of  yesterday. 
What  shall  he  be  ere  night?  perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing: 
By  his  closed  eye  unheeded  and  unfelt. 
While  sets  that  sun,  and  dews  of  (evening  melt, 
Chill— wet— and  misty  round  each  stilTen'd  limb. 
Refreshing  earth — ^reviving  all  but  him! 


* 


ih 


CANTO  in.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 
'Come  vedi — ancor  non  m'abbandona." — Dante. 


Or 


Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 

Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun: 

Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light! 

O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave,  that  trembles  as  it  glows. 

On  old  ^gina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle. 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine. 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 

Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis! 

Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven; 

Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

Behind  his  Delphian  cliff  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve,  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When — Athens!   here  thy  Wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage's*  latest  day! 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill — 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still! 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes. 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes: 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour, 
The  land,  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before; 
But  ere  he  sank  below  Cithaeron's  head. 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff' d — the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  who  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly — 
Who  lived  and  died,  as  none  can  live  or  die: 
But  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign.f 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  nor  girds  her  glowing  form; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray. 
And,  bright  around  with  quivering  beams  be^et, 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret: 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter' d  dark  and  wide 
Where  meek  Cephisus  pours  his  scanty  tide, 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,^ 

*  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset,  (the  hour 
of  execution,)  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples  to  wait 
till  the  sun  went  down. 

t  The  twilight  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own  country; 
the  days  in  winter  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  shorter  duration. 

t  The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-liouse;  the  palm  is  without  the 
present  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus,  be 
tween  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  intervenes.  Cephisus'  stream  is 
indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 


-i 


28 


4 


THE  CORSAIR. 


[CANTO  III. 


And,  dun  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm, 
Near  Theseus'  fane  yon  solitary  palm, 
All  tinged  with  varied  hues,  arrest  the  eye — 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  -^gean,  heard  no  more  afar. 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war; 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  array  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle, 
That  frown — where  gentler  ocean  seems  to  smile.* 


n. 

Not  now  my  theme — why  turn  my  thoughts  to  thee  ? 

Oh!  who  can  look  along  thy  native  sea. 

Nor  dwell  upon  thy  name,  whate'er  the  tale, 

So  much  its  magic  must  o'er  all  prevail? 

Who  that  beheld  that  Sun  upon  thee  set, 

Fair  Athens!  could  thine  evening  face  forget? 

Not  he — whose  heart  nor  time  nor  distance  frees, 

Spellbound  within  the  clustering  Cyclades! 

Nor  seems  this  homage  foreign  to  his  strain. 

His  Corsair's  isle  was  once  thine  own  domain — 

Would  that  with  freedom  it  were  thine  again! 


III. 

The  Sun  hath  sunk — and,  darker  than  the  night, 
Sinks  with  its  beam  upon  the  beacon  height — 
Medora's  heart — the  third  day's  come  and  gone — 
With  it  he  comes  not — sends  not — faithless  one! 
The  wind  was  fair  though  light;  and  storms  were  none. 
Last  eve  Anselmo's  bark  return'd,  and  yet 
His  only  tidings  that  they  had  not  met! 
Though  wild,  as  now,  far  different  were  the  tale 
Had  Conrad  waited  for  that  single  sail. 

The  night-breeze  freshens — she  that  day  had  pass'd 
In  watching  all  that  Hope  proclaimed  a  mast; 
Sadly  she  sate — on  high — Impatience  bore 
At  last  her  footsteps  to  the  midnight  shore. 
And  there  she  wander'd,  heedless  of  the  spray 
That  dash'd  her  garments  oft,  and  wam'd  away: 
She  saw  not — felt  not  this — nor  dared  depart, 
Nor  deem'd  it  cold— her  chill  was  at  her  heart; 
Till  grew  such  certainty  from  that  suspense — 
His  very  sight  had  shock'd  from  life  or  sense! 

It  came  at  last — a  sad  and  shatter'd  boat, 

Whose  inmates  first  beheld  whom  first  they  sought; 

*The  opening  lines,  as  far  as  section  ii..  have,  perhaps,  little  busi- 
ness here,  and  were  annexed  to  an  unpiiblishetl  (though  printed) 
poem:  but  they  were  written  on  the  spot  in  tho  spring  of  1811,  and 
—I  scarce  know  why — the  reader  must  excuse  their  appearance  here 
if  he  can. 


+ 


CANTO  III.j 


THE  CORSAIR. 


29 


Some  bleeding — all  most  wretched — ^these  the  few — 

Scarce  knew  they  how  escaped — this  all  they  knew. 

In  silence,  darkling,  each  appear'd  to  wait 

His  fellow's  mournful  guess  at  Conrad's  fate: 

Something  they  would  have  said;  but  seem'd  to  fear 

To  trust  their  accents  to  Medora's  ear. 

She  saw  at  once,  yet  sank  not — trembled  not — 

Beneath  that  grief,  that  loneliness  of  lot, 

Within  that  meek  fair  form,  where  feelings  high, 

That  deem'd  not  till  they  found  their  energy. 

While  yet  was  Hope — they  soften'd— flutter'd— wept — 

All  lost — that  softness  died  not — but  it  slept; 

And  o'er  its  slumber  rose  that  Strength  which  said, 

"  With  nothing  left  to  love — there's  nought  to  dread." 

'Tis  more  than  nature's;  like  the  burning  might 

Delirium  gathers  from  the  fever's  height. 

"  Silent  you  stand — nor  would  I  hear  you  tell 
What — speak  not — breathe  not — for  I  know  it  well — 
Tet  would  I  ask — almost  my  lip  denies 
The — quick  your  answer — ^tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"  Lady!  we  know  not— scarce  with  life  we  fled; 

But  here  is  one  denies  that  he  is  dead: 

He  saw  him  bound;  and  bleeding— but  alive." 

She  heard  no  further — 'twas  in  vain  to  strive — 

So  throbb'd  each  vein — each  thought — ^till  then  withstood ; 

Her  own  dark  soul — these  words  at  once  subdued: 

She  totters — falls — and  senseless  had  the  wave 

Perchance  but  snatch'd  her  from  another  grave; 

But  that  with  hands  though  rude,  yet  weeping  eyes, 

They  yield  such  aid  as  Pity's  haste  supplies: 

Dash  o'er  her  death-like  cheek  the  ocean-dew, 

Raise — fan — sustain — till  life  returns  anew; 

Awake  her  handmaids,  with  the  matrons  leave 

That  fainting  form  o'er  which  they  gaze  and  grieve; 

Then  seek  Anselmo's  cavern,  to  report 

The  tale  too  tedious— when  the  triumph  short. 


IV. 

In  that  wild  council  words  wax'd  warm  and  strange. 
With  thoughts  of  ransom,  rescue,  and  revenge; 
All,  save  repose  or  flight:  still  lingering  there 
Breathed  Conrad's  spirit,  and  forbade  despair; 
Whate'er  his  fate — the  breasts  he  form'd  and  led, 
Will  save  him  living,  or  appease  him  dead. 
Woe  to  his  foes!  there  yet  survive  a  few, 
Whose  deeds  are  daring,  as  their  hearts  are  true. 


Within  the  Harem's  secret  chamber  sate 
Stem  Seyd,  still  pondering  o'er  his  Captive's  fate; 
His  thoughts  on  love  and  hate  alternate  dwell. 
Now  with  Gulnare,  and  now  in  Conrad's  cell; 


m^ 


39 


4- 


THE  CORSAIR. 


[canto  hi. 


Here  at  his  feet  the  lovely  slave  recUned 
Surveys  his  brow — would  soothe  his  gloom  of  mind: 
While  many  an  anxious  glance  her  large  dark  eye 
Sends  in  its  idle  search  for  svmpathy, 
His  only  bends  in  seeming  o'er  his  beads,* 
But  inly  views  his  victim  as  he  bleeds. 

"  Pacha!  the  day  is  thine;  and  on  thy  ci€st 
Sits  Triumph — Conrad  taken — fall'n  the  rest! 
His  doom  is  flx'd — he  dies:  and  well  his  fate 
Was  earn'd — ^yet  much  too  worthless  for  thy  hate: 
Methinks,  a  short  release,  for  ransom  told 
With  all  his  treasure,  not  unwisely  sold; 
Report  speaks  largely  of  his  pirate-hoard — 
Would  that  of  this  my  Pacha  were  the  lord! 
While  baffled,  weakeu'd  by  this  fatal  fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he  were  then  an  easier  prey; 
But  once  cut  off — the  remnant  of  his  band 
Embark  their  wealth,  and  seek  a  safer  strand." 

"  Gulnare! — if  for  each  drop  of  blood  a  gem 

Were  offer'd  rich  as  Stamboul's  diadem; 

If  for  each  hair  of  his  a  massy  mine 

Of  virgin  ore  should  supplicating  shine; 

If  all  our  Arab  tales  divulge  or  dream 

Of  wealth  were  here — that  gold  should  not  redeem! 

It  had  not  now  redeem 'd  a  single  hour. 

But  that  I  know  him  fetter'd,  m  my  power; 

And,  thirsting  for  revenge,  I  ponder  still 

On  pangs  that  longest  rack,  and  latest  kill." 

"  Nay,  Seyd!— I  seek  not  to  restrain  thy  rage, 
Too  justly  moved  for  mercy  to  assuage; 
My  thoughts  were  only  to  secure  for  thee 
His  riches — thus  released,  he  were  not  free: 
Disabled,  shorn  of  half  his  might  and  band. 
His  capture  could  but  wait  thy  first  command." 

"  His  capture  could/ — and  shall  I  then  resign 
One  day  to  him — the  Avretch  already  mine? 
Release  my  foe! — at  whose  remonstrance? — thine! 
Fair  suitor! — to  thy  virtuous  gratitude. 
That  thus  repays  this  Giaour^  relenting  mood, 
Which  thee  and  thine  alone  of  all  could  spa"e, 
No  doubt — regardless  if  the  prize  were  fair, 
My  thanks  and  praise  alike  are  due — now  hear! 
I  have  a  counsel  for  thy  gentler  ear: 
I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman!  and  each  word 
Of  thine  stamps  truth  on  all  Suspicion  heard. 
Borne  in  his  arms  through  fire  from  yon  Serai — 
Say,  wert  thou  lingering  there  with  him  to  fly? 
Thou  need'st  not  answer — thy  confession  speaks. 
Already  reddening  on  thy  guilty  cheeks; 

♦  The  Comboloio,  or  Mohammedan  rosarj'.    The  beads  are  in  num- 
ber ninety-one. 


it 


IK 


•I 


, ft^ 

CANTO  III.]  THE  CORSAIR.  31 

Then,  lovely  dame,  bethink  thee!  and  beware: 

'Tis  not  Ais life  alone  may  claim  such  care! 

Another  word  and — nay — I  need  no  more. 

Accursed  was  the  moment  when  he  bore 

Thee  from  the  flames,  which  better  far — ^but — no— 

I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  with  a  lover's  woe — 

Now,  'tis  thy  lord  that  warns — deceitful  thin^! 

Know'st  thou  that  I  can  clip  thy  wanton  wing? 

In  words  alone  I  am  not  wont  to  chafe: 

Look  to  thyself— nor  deem  thy  falsehood  safe!" 

He  rose — and  slowly,  sternly  thence  withdrew, 
Rage  in  his  eye,  and  threats  in  his  adieu: 
Ah!  little  reck'd  that  chief  of  womanhood — 
Which  frowns  ne'er  quell'd,  nor  menaces  subdued; 
And  little  deem'd  he  what  thy  heart,  Gulnare! 
When  soft  could  feel,  and  when  incensed  could  dare. 
His  doubts  appear'd  to  wrong — ^nor  yet  she  knew 
How  deep  the  root  from  whence  compassion  grew — 
She  was  a  slave — from  such  may  captives  claim 
A  fellow-feeling,  differing  but  in  name; 
Still  half  unconscious — heedless  of  his  wrath, 
Again  she  ventured  on  the  dangerous  path, 
Again  his  rage  repell'd — until  arose 
That  strife  of  thought — the  source  of  woman's  woes! 

VI. 

Meanwhile — long  anxious— weary — still— the  same 

Roll'd  day  and  night— his  soul  could  never  tame— 

This  fearful  interval  of  doubt  and  dread. 

When  every  hour  might  doom  him  worse  than  dead, 

When  every  step  that  eclft'd  by  the  gate 

Might  entering  lead  where  axe  and  stake  await; 

When  every  voice  that  grated  on  his  ear 

Might  be  the  last  that  he  could  ever  hear; 

Could  terror  tame — that  spirit  stern  and  high 

Had  proved  unwilling  as  unfit  to  die; 

'Twas  worn — perhaps  decay'd — ^yet  silent  bore 

That  conflict  deadlier  far  than  ail  before: 

The  heat  of  fight,  the  hurry  of  the  gale, 

Leave  scarce  one  thought  inert  enough  to  quail; 

But  bound  and  lix'd  in  fetter'd  solitude, 

To  pine,  the  prey  of  every  changing  mood; 

To  gaze  on  thine  own  heart;  and  meditate 

Irrevocable  faults,  and  coming  fate — 

Too  late  the  last  to  shun — ^the  first  to  mend — 

To  count  the  hours  that  struggle  to  thine  end, 

With  not  a  friend  to  animate,  and  tell 

To  other  ears  that  death  became  thee  well; 

Around  thee  foes  to  forge  the  ready  lie. 

And  blot  life's  latest  scene  with  calumny; 

Before  thee  tortures,  which  the  soul  can  dare. 

Yet  doubts  how  well  the  shrinking  flesh  may  bear; 

But  deeply  feels  a  single  cry  would  shame, 

To  valor's  praise  thy  last  and  dearest  claim; 

♦A . #* 


u 


THE  CORSAIR  [cahto  in. 

The  life  thou  leav'st  below,  denied  above 
By  kind  monopolists  of  heavenly  love; 
And  more  than  doubtful  paradise — thy  heaven 
Of  earthly  hope — thy  loved  one  from  thee  riven. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  that  outlaw  must  sustain 
And  govern  pangs  surpassing  mortal  pain: 
And  those  sustain'd  he — boots  it  well  or  ill? 
Since  not  to  sink  beneath,  is  something  stilll 


The  first  day  pass'd— he  saw  not  her — Gulnare — 

The  second — third— and  still  she  came  not  there; 

But  what  her  words  avouch 'd,  her  charms  had  done, 

Or  else  he  had  not  seen  another  sun. 

The  fourth  day  roll'd  along,  and  with  the  night 

Came  storm  and  darkness  m  their  mingling  might: 

Oh!  how  he  listen'd  to  the  rushing  deep, 

That  ne'er  till  now  so  broke  upon  his  sleep; 

And  his  wild  spirit  wilder  wishes  sent, 

Roused  by  the  roar  of  his  own  element! 

Oft  had  he  ridden  on  that  winged  wave, 

And  loved  its  roughness  for  the  speed  it  gave; 

And  now  its  dashing  echo'd  on  his  ear, 

A  long  known  voice — ^alas!  too  vainly  near! 

Loud  sung  the  wind  above;  and,  doubly  loud, 

Shook  o'er  his  turret-cell  the  thunder-cloud; 

And  flash'd  the  lightning  by  the  latticed  bar. 

To  him  more  genial  than  the  midnight  star: 

Close  to  the  glimmering  grate  he  dragg'd  his  chain 

And  hoped  that  peril  might  not  prove  in  vain. 

He  raised  his  iron  hand  to  Heaven,  and  pray'd 

One  pitying  flash  to  mar  the  form  it  made: 

His  steel  and  impious  prayer  attract  alike — 

The  storm  roll'd  onwtrd,  and  disdain'd  to  strike. 

Its  peal  wax'd  fainter — ceased — he  felt  alone. 

As  it  some  faithless  friend  had  spum'd  his  groan  I 

.    vin. 
The  midnight  pass'd — and  to  the  massy  door 
A  light  step  came— it  paused— it  moved  once  more; 
Slow  turns  the  grating  bolt  and  sullen  key: 
'Tis  as  his  heart  foreboded — that  fair  She! 
Whate'er  her  sins,  to  him  a  piardian  saint. 
And  beauteous  still  as  hermit's  hope  can  paint; 
Yet  changed  since  last  within  that  cell  she  came, 
More  pale  her  cheek,  more  tremulous  her  frame: 
On  him  she  cast  her  dark  and  hurried  eye. 
Which  spoke  before  her  accent* — "  Thou  must  die! 
Yes,  thou  must  die — there  is  but  one  resource. 
The  last — ^the  worst — if  torture  were  not  worse." 

"  Lady!  I  look  to  none — my  lips  proclaim 
What  last  proclaim'd  they — Conrad  still  the  same: 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  an  outlaw's  life  to  spare, 
And  change  the  sentence  I  deserve  to  bear? 
Well  have  I  eam'd — nor  here  alone — the  meed 
Of  Seyd'8  revenge,  by  many  a  lawless  deed." 


CANTO  in;]  THE  CORSAIR.  33 

"  Why  should  I  seek?  because — oh!  didst  thou  not 

Redeem  my  life  from  worse  than  slavery's  lot? 

Why  should  I  seek? — hath  misery  made  thee  blind 

To  the  fond  workings  of  a  woman's  mind! 

And  must  I  say?  albeit  my  heart  rebel 

With  all  that  woman  feels,  but  should  not  tell — 

Because — despite  thy  crimes — that  heart  is  moved: 

It  fear'd  thee — thank'dthee — pitied — maddened — loved. 

Reply  not,  tell  not  now  thy  tale  again, 

Thou  lov'st  another — and  I  love  in  vain; 

Though  fond  as  mine  her  bosom,  form  more  fair, 

I  rush  through  peril  which  she  would  not  dare. 

If  that  thy  heart  to  hers  were  truly  dear, 

Were  I  thine  own — ^thou  wert  not  lonely  here: 

An  outlaw's  spouse — and  leave  her  lord  to  roam! 

What  hath,  such  gentle  dame  to  do  with  home? 

But  speak  not  now — o'er  thine  and  o'er  my  head 

Hangs  the  keen  sabre  by  a  single  thread; 

If  thou  hast  courage  still,  and  would  be  free, 

Receive  this  poniard — rise — and  follow  me!" 

"  Ay — in  my  chains!  my  steps  will  gently  tread, 
With  these  adornments,  o'er  each  slumbering  head! 
Thou  hast  forgot — is  this  a  garb  for  flight? 
Or  is  that  instrument  more  fit  for  fight?" 

"  Misdoubting  Corsair!  I  have  gain'd  the  guard, 

Ripe  for  revolt,  and  greedy  foi"  reward. 

A  single  word  of  mine  removes  that  chain: 

Without  some  aid  how  here  could  I  remain? 

Well,  since  we  met,  hath  sped  my  busy  time, 

If  in  aught  evil,  for  thy  sake  the  crime:  .,,; 

The  crime — 'tis  none  to  punish  those  of  Seyd,  '** ' 

That  hated  tyrant,  Conrad — he  must  bleed! 

I  see  thee  shudder — but  my  soul  is  changed^ — 

Wrong'd,  spum'd,  reviled — and  it  shall  be  avenged — 

Accused  of  what  till  now  my  heart  disdain'd 

Too  faithful,  though  to  bitter  bondage  chain'd. 

Yes,  smile!— but  he  had  little  cause  to  sneer, 

I  was  not  treacherous  then— nor  thou  too  dear: 

But  he  has  said  it — and  the  jealous  well, 

Those  tyrants,  teasing,  tempting  to  rebel. 

Deserve  the  fate  their  fretting  lips  foretell. 

I  never  loved— he  bought  me— somewhat  high 

Since  with  me  came  a  heart  he  could  not  buy. 

I  was  a  slave  unmurmuring:  he  hath  said, 

But  for  his  rescue  I  with  thee  had  fled. 

'Twas  false  thou  know'st — but  let  such  augurs  rue, 

Their  words  are  omens  Insult  renders  true. 

Nor  was  thy  respite  granted  to  my  prayer; 

This  fleeting  grace  was  only  to  prepare 

New  torments  for  thy  life,  and  my  despair. 

Mine  too  he  threatens;  but  his  dotage  still 

Would  fain  reserve  me  for  his  lordly  will; 

When  wearier  of  these  fleeting  charms  and  me. 

There  yawns  the  sack — and  yonder  rolls  the  sea,  * 

B* 

-» IP* 


^ — *^ 

34  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  hi. 

What,  am  I  then  a  toy  for  dotard's  plaj', 

To  wear  but  till  the  gilding  frets  away? 

I  saw  thee — loved  thee — owe  thee  all — would  save, 

If  but  to  show  how  grateful  is  a  slave. 

But  had  he  not  thus  menaced  fame  and  life, 

(And  well  he  keeps  his  oaths  pronounced  in  strife,) 

I  still  had  saved  thee — but  the  Facha  spared. 

Now  I  am  all  thine  own — for  all  prepared: 

Thou  lov'st  me  not — nor  know'st — or  but  the  worst. 

Alas!  this  love — ^that  hatred  are  the  first — 

Oh!  couldst  thou  prove  my  truth,  thou  wouldst  not  start/ 

Nor  fear  the  fire  that  lights  an  Eastern  heart; 

'Tis  now  the  beacon  of  thy  safety— now 

It  points  within  the  port  a  Mainote  prow: 

But  in  one  chamber,  where  our  path  must  lead, 

There  sleeps — he  must  not  wake — the  oppressor  Seyd!" 

"Gulnare — Gulnare— I  never  felt  till  now 

My  abject  fortune,  wither'd  fame  so  low: 

Seyd  is  mine  enemy:  had  swept  my  band 

From  earth  with  ruthless  but  with  open  hand, 

And  therefore  came  I,  in  my  bark  of  war, 

To  smite  the  smiter  with  the  scimitar; 

Such  is  my  weapon — ^not  the  secret  knife — 

Who  spares  a  woman's  seeks  not  slumber's  life.  . 

Thine  saved  I  gladly,  Lady,  not  for  this— 

Let  me  not  deem  that  mercy  shown  amiss. 

Now  fare  thee  well — more  peace  be  with  thy  breast! 

Night  wears  apace—my  last  of  earthly  rest!'' 

"Rest!  rest!  by  sunrise  must  thy  sinews  shake, 

And  thy  limbs  writhe  around  the  ready  stake. 

I  heard  the  order — saw — I  will  not  see — 

If  thou  wilt  perish,  I  will  fall  with  thee. 

My  life — my  love — my  hatred — all  below. 

Are  on  this  cast — Corsair!  'tis  but  a  blow! 

Without  it  flight  were  idle — how  evade 

His  sure  pursuit?  my  wrongs  too  unrepaid, 

My  youth  disgraced— the  long,  long  wasted  years, 

One  blow  shall  cancel  with  our  future  fears; 

But  since  the  dagger  suits  thee  less  than  brand, 

I'll  try  the  firmness  of  a  female  hand. 

The  guards  are  gain'd — one  moment  all  were  o'er — 

Corsair!  we  meet  in  safety  or  no  more; 

If  errs  my  feeble  hand,  the  morning  cloud 

Will  hover  o'er  thy  scaffold,  and  my  shroud." 

IX. 

She  tum'd,  and  vanish'd  ere  he  could  reply, 
But  his  glance  follow'd  far  with  eager  eve; 
And  gatheriug,  as  he  could,  the  links  that  bound 
His  form,  to  curl  their  length,  and  curb  their  sound. 
Since  bar  and  bolt  no  more  his  steps  preclude, 
He,  fast  as  fetter'd  limbs  allow,  pursued. 
'Twas  dark  and  winding,  and  he  knew  not  Mhere 
♦        That  passage  led;  nor  lamp  nor  guard  were  there: 

■* • — *- 


'IP   . — = #* 

CANTO  III.]  THE  CORSAIR.  35 

He  sees  a  dusky  glimmering — shall  he  seek 

Or  shun  that  ray  so  indistinct  and  weak  ? 

Chance  guides  his  steps — a  freshness  seems  te  bear 

Full  on  his  brow,  as  if  from  morning  aii- — 

He  reach'd  an  open  gallery — on  his  eye 

Gleam'd  the  last  star  of  night,  the  clearing  sky: 

Yet  scarcely  heeded  these — another  light 

From  a  lone  chamber  struck  upon  his  sight. 

Towards  it  he  moved;  a  scarcely  closing  door 

Reveal'd  the  ray  within,  but  nothing  more. 

With  hasty  step  a  figure  outward  passed, 

Then  paused — and  tui-n'd — and  pause<l — 'tis  She  at  last! 

No  poniard  in  that  hand — nor  sign  of  ill — 

"  Thanks  to  that  softening  heart — she  could  not  kill!" 

Again  he  look'd,  the  wildness  of  her  eye 

Starts  from  the  day  abrupt  and  fearfully. 

She  stopp'd — threw  back  her  dark  far-fioating  hair, 

That  nearly  veil'd  her  face  and  bosom  fair: 

As  if  she  late  had  bent  her  leaning  head 

Above  some  object  of  her  doubt  or  dread. 

They  meet — upon  her  brow — unknown — foi-got — 

Her  hurrying  hand  had  left — 'twas  but  a  spot — 

Its  hue  was  all  he  saw,  and  scarce  withstood — 

Oh!  slight  but  certain  pledge  of  crime — 'tis  blood! 


He  had  seen  battle— he  had  brooded  lone 

O'er  promised  pangs  to  sentenced  guilt  foreshown; 

He  had  been  tempted — chasten 'd— and  the  chain 

Yet  on  his  arms  might  ever  there  remain: 

But  ne'er  from  strife — captivity — remorse — 

From  all  his  feelings  in  their  inmost  force — 

So  thrill'd — so  shudder'd  every  creeping  vein, 

As  now  they  froze  before  that  purple  stain. 

That  spot  of  blood,  that  light  but  guilty  streak, 

Had  banish 'd  all  the  beauty  from  her  cheek! 

Blood  he  had  view'd — could  view  unmoved — but  then 

It  flow'd  in  combat,  or  wa«  shed  by  men! 

XI. 

"  'Tis  done— he  nearly  waked — but  it  is  done. 
Corsair!  he  perish'd — thou  art  dearly  won. 
All  words  would  now  be  vain — away — away! 
Our  bark  is  tossing — 'tis  already  day. 
The  few  gain'd  over — now  are  wholly  mine, 
And  these  thy  yet  surviving  band  shall  join: 
Anon  my  voice  shall  vindicate  my  hand, 
When  once  our  sail  forsakes  this  hated  strand." 


She  clapp'd  her  hands— and  through  the  gallery  pour, 
Equipp'd  for  flight,  her  vassals— Greek  and  Moor; 
Silent  but  quick  they  stoop,  his  chains  unbind; 
Once  more  his  limbs  are  free  as  mountain  wind! 
But  on  his  heavy  heart  such  sadness  sate, 
As  if  they  there  transferr'd  that  iron  weight.  m 


t 


^H- 


*m '■ -4 

86  THE  CORSAIR.  [cahto  ui. 

No  words  arc  utter'd— at  her  Bign,  a  door 
Reveals  the  secret  passage  to  the  shore; 
The  city  lies  behiad — they  speed,  they  reach 
The  glad  waves  daucing  on  the  yellow  beach; 
And  Conrad  following,  at  her  beck,  obey'd. 
Nor  cared  he  now  if  rescued  or  betray'd; 
Resistance  was  as  useless  as  if  Seyd 
Yet  lived  to  view  the  doom  his  ire  decreed. 


Embark' d.  the  sail  unfurl'd,  the  light  breeze  blew- 
How  much  had  Conrad's  memory  to  review! 
Sunk  he  ia  Contemplation,  till  the  cape 
Where  last  he  auchor'd  rear'd  its  giant  shape. 
Ah  I— since  that  fatal  night,  though  brief  the  time, 
Had  swept  an  age  of  teiTor,  grief,  and  crime. 
As  its  far  shadow  frown'd  above  the  mast, 
He  veil'd  his  face,  and  sorrow'd  as  he  i>as8'd; 
He  thought  of  all — Gonsalvo  and  his  band. 
His  fleeting  triumph  and  his  failing  hand; 
He  thought  on  her  afar,  his  lonely  bride: 
He  tum'd  and  saw— Oulnare,  the  homicidel 


She  watch'd  his  features  till  she  could  not  bear 
Their  freezing  aspect  and  averted  air. 
And  that  strange  fierceness  foreign  f  o  her  eye. 
Fell  quench'd  in  tears,  too  late  to  shed  or  dry. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  his  hand  she  press'd, 
"  Thou  may'st  forgive  though  Allah's  self  detest; 
But  for  that  deed  of  darkness  what  weit  thou? 
Reproach  me — but  not  yet — Oh!  spare  me  tiow/ 
I  am  not  what  I  seem— this  fearful  night 
My  brain  bewilder' d — do  not  madden  quite  I 
If  I  had  never  loved — though  less  my  guilt, 
Thou  hadst  not  lived  to — ^hate  me — if  thou  wilt." 


She  wrongs  his  thoughts,  they  more  himself  upbraid 

Than  her,  though  undesign'd,  the  wretch  he  made, 

But  speechless  all,  deep,  dark,  and  nnerprest. 

They  bleed  within  that  silent  cell — his  breast. 

Still  onward,  fair  the  breeze,  nor  roug^  the  surge, 

The  blue  waves  sport  around  the  stem  they  urge. 

Far  on  the  horizon's  verge  appears  a  speck, 

A  spot — a  mast — a  sail — an  armed  deckl 

Their  little  bark  her  men  of  watch  desciy; 

And  ampler  canvas  woos  the  wind  from  high; 

She  bears  her  down  majestically  near, 

8i>eed  on  her  prow  and  terror  in  her  tier; 

A  flash  is  seen — ^the  ball  beyond  their  bow 

Booms  harmless,  hissing  to  the  deep  below. 

Up  rose  keen  Conrad  from  his  silent  trance, 

A  long,  long  absent  gladness  in  his  glance: 

"  'Tis  mine—my  blood-red  flag!  again — again — 

I  am  not  all  deserted  on  the  mAinr' 


^^ 


T 


OANTo  HI.]  THE  CORSAIR.  37 

They  own  the  si^al,  answer  to  the  hail, 

Hoist  out  the  boat  at  once,  and  slacken  sail. 

"  'Tis  Conrad!  Conradl "  shouting  from  the  deck, 

Command  nor  duty  could  their  transport  check! 

With  light  alacrity  and  gaze  of  pride, 

They  view  him  mount  once  more  his  vessel's  side; 

A  smile  relaxing  in  each  rugged  face, 

Their  arras  can  scarce  forbear  a  rough  embrace. 

He,  half  forgetting  danger  and  defeat, 

Returns  their  greetings  as  a  chief  may  greet, 

Wrings  with  a  cordial  grasp  Anselmo's  hand, 

And  feels  he  yet  can  conquer  and  commandl 


These  greetings  o'er,  the  feelings  that  o'erflow. 

Yet  grieve  to  win  him  back  without  a  blow; 

They  sail'd  prepared  for  vengeance — had  they  known, 

A  woman's  hand  secured  that  deed  her  own. 

She  were  their  queen — less  scrupulous  are  they 

Than  haughty  Conrad  how  they  win  their  way. 

With  many  an  asking  smile,  and  wondering  stare, 

They  whisper  round,  and  gaze  upon  Gulnare; 

And  her,  at  once  above — beneath  her  sex. 

Whom  blood  appall'd  not,  their  regards  perplex. 

To  Conrad  turns  her  faint  imploring  eye. 

She  drops  her  veil,  and  stands  in  silence  by; 

Her  arms  are  meekly  folded  on  that  breast. 

Which — Conrad  safe — to  fate  resign'd  the  rest. 

Though  worse  than  frenzy  could  that  bosom  fill, 

Extreme  in  love  or  hate,  in  good  or  ill, 

The  worst  of  crimes  had  left  her  woman  still  I 


This  Conrad  mark'd,  and  felt — ah!  could  he  less? — 
Hate  of  that  deed— but  grief  for  her  distress; 
What  she  has  done  no  tears  can  wash  away. 
And  Heaven  must  punish  on  its  angry  day: 
But — it  was  done:  he  knew,  whate'er  her  guilt. 
For  him  that  poniard  smote,  that  blood  was  spilt; 
And  he  was  free! — and  she  for  him  had  given 
Her  all  on  earth,  and  more  than  all  in  heaven! 
And  now  he  tum'd  him  to  that  dark-eyed  slave. 
Whose  brow  was  bow'd  beneath  the  glance  he  gave. 
Who  now  seem'd  changed  and  humbled: — faint  and 

meek. 
But  varying  oft  the  color  of  her  cheek 
To  deeper  shades  of  paleness — all  its  red 
That  fearful  spot  which  stain'd  it  from  the  dead! 
He  took  that  hand — it  trembled — now  too  late — 
So  soft  in  love — so  wildly  nerved  in  hate; 
He  clasp'd  that  hand — it  trembled — and  his  own 
Had  lost  its  firmness,  and  his  voice  its  tone. 
"  Gulnare! " — but  she  replied  not — *'  dear  Gulnare!  " 
She  raised  her  eye — her  only  answer  there — 
At  once  she  sought  and  sunk  in  his  embrace: 
If  he  had  driven  her  frpm  that  resting-place,    . 

^  I       ^ ... — ■   -.,i.ri....i«.i.i. .1    Ml-  -.-i";  ji,». 


♦ft 

38  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  hi. 

His  had  been  more  or  loss  than  mortal  heart, 
But — good  or  ill — it  bade  her  not  depart. 
Perchance,  but  for  the  bodings  of  his  breast. 
His  latest  virtue  then  had  join'd  the  rest. 
Yet  even  Medora  might  forgive  the  kiss 
That  ask'd  from  form  so  fair  no  more  than  this, 
The  first,  the  last  that  Frailty  stole  from  Faith — 
To  lips  where  Love  had  lavish 'd  all  his  breath. 
To  lips — whose  broken  sighs  such  fra^ance  fling 
As  he  had  fann'd  them  freshly  with  his  wingi 


They  gain  by  twilight's  hour  their  lonely  isle. 

To  them  the  very  rocks  appear  to  smile; 

The  haven  hums  with  many  a  cheering  sound. 

The  beacons  blaze  their  wonted  stations  round, 

The  boats  are  darting  o'er  the  curly  bay, 

And  sportive  dolphins  bend  them  through  the  spray; 

Even  the  hoarse  sea-bird's  shrill,  discordant  shriek 

Greets  like  the  welcome  of  his  tuneless  beakl 

Beneath  each  lamp  that  through  its  lattice  gleams. 

Their  fancy  paints  the  friends  that  trim  the  beams. 

Oh!  what  can  sanctify  the  joys  of  home, 

Like  Hope's  gay  glance  from  Ocean's  troubled  foam! 

XIX. 

The  lights  are  high  on  beacon  and  from  bower. 

And  'midst  them  Conrad  seeks  Medora's  tower: 

He  looks  in  vain — 'tis  strange — and  all  remark, 

Amid  so  many,  hers  alone  is  dark. 

'Tis  strange — of  yore  its  welcome  never  fail'd, 

Nor  now,  perchance  extinguish 'd,  only  veil'd. 

With  the  first  boat  descen'ds  he  to  the  shore, 

And  looks  impatient  on  the  lingering  oar. 

Oh  for  a  wing  beyond  the  falcon's  flight. 

To  bear  him  Tike  an  arrow  to  that  height! 

With  the  first  pause  the  resting  ix)wers  gave, 

He  waits  not — looks  not — leaps  into  the  wave, 

Strives  through  the  surge,  bestrides  the  beach,  and  high 

Ascends  the  path  familiar  to  his  eye. 

He  reach'd  his  turret-door — he  paused — no  sound 
Broke  from  within;  and  all  was  night  around. 
He  kuock'd,  and  loudly — footstej)  nor  reply 
Announced  that  any  heard  or  deem'd  him  nigh; 
He  knock'd— but  faintly— for  his  trembling  hand 
Refused  to  aid  his  heavy  heart's  demand. 
The  portal  opens — 'tis  a  well-known  face — 
But  not  the  form  he  panted  to  embrace. 
Its  lips  are  silent — twice  his  own  essay'd. 
And  fail'd  to  frame  the  question  they  delay'd; 
He  snatch'd  the  lamp — its  light  will  answer  all — 
It  quits  his  grasp,  expiring  in  the  fall. 
He  would  not  wait  for  that  reviving  ray — 
As  soon  could  he  have  lingcr'd  there  for  day; 


i 


i 


^ 

CANTO  III.]  THE  CORSAIR.  89 

But,  glimmering  through  the  dusky  corridor, 
Another  chequers  o'er  the  ehadov/'d  floor; 
His  steps  the  chamber  gain — his  eyes  behold 
All  that  his  heart  believed  not— yet  foretold! 

XX, 

He  tum'd  not — spoke  not — sunk  not — fix'd  his  look, 

And  set  the  anxious  frame  that  latel}^  shook: 

He  gazed — how  long  we  gaze  despite  of  pain, 

And  know,  but  dare  not  own,  we  gaze  in  vain! 

In  life  itself  she  was  so  still  and  fair, 

That  death  with  gentler  aspect  withered  there; 

And  the  cold  flowers  her  colder  hand  contain'd,* 

In  that  last  grasp  as  tenderly  were  strain'd 

As  if  she  scarcely  felt,  but  feign 'd  a  sleep, 

And  made  it  almost  mockery  yet  to  weep: 

The  long  dark  lashes  fringed  her  lids  of  snow. 

And  veil'd— thought  shrinks  from  all  that  lurk'd  below — 

Oh!  o'er  the  eye  death  most  exerts  his  might, 

And  hurls  the  spirit  from  her  throne  of  light! 

Sinks  those  blue  orbs  in  that  long  last  eclipse. 

But  spares,  as  yet,  the  charm  around  her  lips — 

Yet,  yet  they  seem  as  they  forebore  to  smile. 

And  wish'd  repose — but  only  for  a  while; 

But  the  white  shroud,  and  each  extended  tress, 

Long — fair — but  spread  in  utter  lifelessness. 

Which,  late  the  sport  of  every  summer  wind, 

Escaped  the  baflied  Avreath  that  strove  to  bind; 

These — and  the  pale  pure  cheek,  became  the  bier — 

But  she  is  nothing — wherefore  is  he  here? 


He  ask'd  no  question — all  were  answer'd  now 

By  the  first  glance  on  that  still — marble  brow. 

It  was  enough — she  died — what  reck'd  it  ho^^  ? 

The  love  of  youth,  the  hope  of  better  years, 

The  source  of  softest  wishes,  tenderest  fears, 

The  only  living  thing  he  could  not  hate. 

Was  reft  at  once — and  he  deserved  his  fate, 

But  did  not  feel  it  less;— the  good  explore, 

For  peace,  those  realms  where  guilt  can  never  soar: 

The  proud— the  wayward— who  have  fix'd  below 

Their  joy,  and  find  this  earth  enough  for  woe. 

Lose  in  that  one  their  all— perchance  a  mite — 

But  who  in  patience  parts  with  all  delight? 

Full  many  a  stoic  eye  and  aspect  stem 

Mask  hearts  where  grief  hath  little  left  to  learn; 

And  many  a  withering  thought  lies  hid,  not  lost, 

In  smiles  that  least  befit  who  wear  them  most. 


By  those,  that  deepest  feel,  is  ill  exprest 
The  indistinctness  of  the  suffering  breast; 

*  In  the  Levant  it  is  the  custom  to  strew  flowers  on  the  bodies  of 
the  dead,  and  in  the  hands  of  young  persons  to  place  a  uosegaj'. 

4f _ i^ 


40 


THE  CORSAIR. 


[canto  iir. 


Where  thouBand  thoughts  begin  to  end  In  one, 
Which  seeks  from  all  the  refuge  found  in  none; 
No  words  suffice  the  secret  soul  to  show, 
For  Truth  denies  all  eloquence  to  Woe. 
On  Conrad's  stricken  soul  exhaustion  prest, 
And  stupor  almost  lull'd  it  into  rest; 
So  feeble  now — his  mother's  softness  crept 
To  those  wild  eyes,  which  like  an  infant's  wept: 
It  was  the  very  weakness  of  his  brain. 
Which  thus  confess'd  without  relieving  pain. 
None  saw  his  trickling  tears— perchance,  if  seen, 
That  useless  flood  of  grief  had  never  been: 
Nor  long  they  flow'd— he  dried  them  to  depart 
In  helpless — hopeless — brokenness  of  heart: 
The  sun  goes  forth — but  Conrad's  day  is  dim; 
And  the  night  cometh — ne'er  to  pass  from  him. 
There  is  no  darkness  like  the  cloud  of  mind, 
On  Grief's  vain  eye — the  blindest  of  the  blind! 
Which  may  not — dare  not  see — but  turns  aside 
To  blackest  shade — nor  will  endure  a  guide! 


His  heart  was  form'd  for  softness — warp'd  to  wrong; 
Betray'd  too  early,  and  beguiled  too  long; 
Each  feeling  pure — as  falls  the  dropping  dew 
Within  the  gr<Jt;  like  that  had  hardened  too; 
Less  clear,  perchance,  its  earthly  trials  pass'd, 
But  sunk,  and  chill'd,  and  petrified  at  last. 
Yet  tempests  wear,  and  lightning  cleaves  the  rock; 
If  such  his  heart,  so  shatter'd  it  the  shock. 
There  grew  one  flower  beneath  its  rugged  brow, 
Though  dark  the  shade— it  shelter'd— saved  till  now. 
The  thunder  came — that  bolt  hath  blasted  both, 
The  Granite's  firmness,  and  the  Lily's  growth: 
The  gentle  plant  hath  left  no  leaf  to  tell 
Its  tale,  but  shrunk  and  wither'd  where  it  fell; 
And  of  its  cold  protector,  blacken  round 
But  shiver'd  fragments  on  the  barren  groundl 


XXIV. 

'Tis  mom — to  venture  on  his  lonely  hour 

Few  dare;  though  now  Anselmo  sought  his  tower. 

He  was  not  there — nor  seen  along  the  shore; 

Ere  night,  alarm'd,  their  isle  Is  traversed  o'er: 

Another  mom — another  bids  them  seek, 

And  shout  his  name  till  echo  waxeth  weak; 

Mount— grotto — cavem— valley  search 'd  in  vain, 

They  find  on  shore  a  sea-boat's  broken  chain: 

Their  hope  revives— they  follow  o'er  the  main. 

'Tis  idle  all— moons  roll  on  moons  away. 

And  Conrad  comes  not— came  not  since  that  day: 

Nor  trace,  nor  tidings  of  his  doom  declare 

Where  lives  his  griei,  or  perish'd  his  despair! 

Long  moum'd  his  band  whom  none  could  mourn  beside; 

And  fair  the  monument  they  gave  his  bride: 


■tt 


CANTO  III.] 


THE  CORSAIR. 


41 


For  him  they  raise  not  the  recording  stone — 
His  death  yet  dubious,  deeds  too  widely  known; 
He  left  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Link'd  with  one  virtue,  and  a  thousand  crimes.* 


^K 


*That  the  point  of  honor  which  is  represented  in  one  instance  of 
Conrad's  character  has  not  been  carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  prob- 
ability, may  perhaps  be  in  some  degree  confirmed  by  the  following 
anecdote  of  a  brother  buccaneer  in  the  year  1814:— 

*'  Our  readers  have  all  seen  the  account  of  the  enterprise  against 
the  pirates  of  Barrataria;  but  few.  we  believe,  were  informed  of  the 
situation,  history,  or  nature  of  that  establishment.  For  the  informa- 
tion of  such  as  were  unacquainted  with  it,  we  have  procured  from  a 
friend  the  following  interesting  narrative  of  the  main  facts,  of  which 
he  has  personal  knowledge,  and  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  our 
readers: 

•'  Barrataria  is  a  bay,  or  a  narrow  arm  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico;  it 
runs  tlu'ough  a  rich  but  very  flat  country,  until  it  reaches  within  a 
mile  of  the  Mississippi  river,  fifteen  miles  below  the  city  of  New 
Orleans.  The  bay  has  branches  almost  innumerable,  in  which  per- 
sons can  he  concealed  from  the  severest  scrutiny.  It  communicates 
with  three  lakes  which  lie  ■  n  the  southwest  side,  and  these  with  the 
lake  of  the  same  name,  and  which  hes  contiguous  to  the  sea.  where 
there  is  an  island  formed  by  the  two  arms  of  this  lake  and  the  sea. 
The  east  and  west  points  of  this  island  were  fortified  in  the  year  1811 
by  a  band  of  pirates,  under  the  command  of  one  Monsieur  La  Fitte. 
A  large  majority  of  these  outlaws  are  of  that  class  of  the  population 
of  the  state  of  Louisiana  who  fled  from  the  island  of  St.  Domingo 
during  the  troubles  there,  and  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Cuba ; 
and  when  the  last  war  betw  een  France  and  Spain  commenced,  they 
were  compelled  to  leave  that  island  with  the  short  notice  of  a  few 
days.  Without  ceremony,  they  entered  the  United  States,  the  most 
of  them  the  state  of  Louisiana,  with  all  the  negroes  they  had  pos- 
sessed in  Cuba.  They  were  notifled  by  the  governor  of  that  state  of 
the  clause  in  the  Constitution  which  forbade  the  importation  of 
slaves;  but,  at  the  same  time,  received  the  assurance  of  the  gov- 
ernor that  he  would  obtain,  if  possible,  the  approbation  of  the  gen- 
eral government  for  their  retaining  this  property. 

*'  The  island  of  Barrataria  is  situated  about  lat.  29  deg.  15  min., 
long.  9  J  deg.  30  min.,  and  is  as  remarkable  for  its  health  as  for  the 
sufjerior  scale  and  shell  fish  with  which  its  waters  abound.  The 
chief  of  this  horde,  like  Charles  de  Moor,  had  mixed  with  his  many 
vices  some  virtues.  In  the  year  1813,  this  party  had,  from  its  turpi- 
tude and  boldness,  claimed  the  attention  of  the  governor  of  Louisi- 
ana; and,  to  break  up  the  establishment,  he  thought  proper  to  strike 
at  the  head.  He  therefore  offered  a  reward  of  500  dollars  for  the  head 
of  Monsieur  La  Fitte.  whowas  well  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  city 
of  New  Orleans,  from  his  immediate  connection,  and  his  once  hav- 
ing been  a  fencing-ma.ster  in  the  city,  of  great  reputation,  which  art 
he  learned  in  Buonaparte's  army,  where  he  was  a  captain.  The  reward 
which  was  offered  by  the  governor  for  the  head  of  La  Fitte  was  an- 
swered by  the  offer  of  a  rewai*d  from  the  latter  of  15,000  dollars  for 
the  head  of  the  governor.  The  governor  ordered  out  a  company  to 
march  from  the  city  to  La  Fitte's  island,  and  to  burn  and  destroy 
all  the  property,  and  to  bring  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans  all  his  ban- 
ditti. This  company,  under  the  command  of  a  man  who  had  been 
the  intimate  associate  of  this  bold  captain,  approached  very  near  to 
the  fortified  island  before  he  saw  a  man,  or  heard  a  sound,  until  ho 
heard  a  whistle,  not  unlike  a  boatswain's  call.  Then  it  was  he  found 
himself  surrounded  by  armed  men,  who  had  emerged  from  the 
secret  avenues  which  led  into  Bayou.  Here  it  was  that  the  modern 
Charles  de  Moor  developed  his  few  noble  traits ;  for  to  this  man,  who 
had  come  to  destroy  his  life  and  all  that  was  dear  to  him,  he  not  only 
spared  his  life,  but  offered  him  that  which  would  have  made  the 
honest  soldier  easy  for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  which  was  indig- 


f 


-i 


42  THE  CORSAIR.  [canto  hi. 

nantly  refused.  He  then,  with  the  approbation  of  liis  captor,  re 
turned  to  the  city.  This  circumstance,  and  some  concomitant 
events,  proved  that  this  band  of  pirates  was  not  to  be  taken  by  land. 
Our  naval  force  having  always  been  small  in  that  quarter,  exertions 
for  the  destruction  or  this  illicit  establishment  could  not  be  ex- 
pected from  them  until  augmented;  for  an  officer  of  the  navy,  with 
most  of  the  gunboats  on  that  station,  had  to  retreat  from  an  over- 
whelming force  of  La  Fitte's.  So  soon  as  the  augmentation  of  the 
navy  authorized  an  attack,  one  was  made;  and,  now  this  almost  in- 
vulnerable point  and  key  to  New  Orleans  is  clear  of  an  enemy,  it  is 
to  be  hoped  the  government  will  hold  it  by  a  strong  military  force." — 
F^om  an  American  Newspaper. 

In  Noble's  continuation  of  "Granger's  Biographical  IMctionarj'," 
there  is  a  singular  passage  in  his  account  of  Archbishop  Black- 
bourne;  and  as  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  profession  of 
the  hero  of  the  foregoing  jjoem,  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
extracting  it:  — 

"  There  is  something  mysterious  in  the  history  and  character  of 
Dr.  Blackbouine.  The  former  is  but  imperfectly  known;  and  re- 
port has  even  asserted  he  was  a  buccaneer:  and  that  one  of  his 
brethren  in  that  profession  having  askt-d,  on  his  arrival  in  England, 
what  had  become  of  his  old  churn  Blackbourne.  was  answered,  he  is 
Archbishop  of  York.  We  are  informed  that  Blackbourne  was  in- 
stalled sub-dean  of  Exeter  in  1694,  which  office  he  resigned  in  1702; 
but  after  his  successor  Lewis  Barnet's  death,  in  1704,  he  regained  it. 
In  the  following  year  he  became  dean;  and,  in  1714,  held  with  it  the 
arch-deanery  of  Cornwall.  He  was  consecrated  Bishop  of  Exeter, 
February  24,  1716;  and  translated  to  York,  November  28,  1724.  as  a 
reward,  according  to  court  scandal,  for  uniting  George  I.  to  the 
Duchess  of  Munster.  This,  however,  appears  to  have  been  an  im- 
founded  calumny.  As  archbishop  he  behaved  with  great  prudence, 
and  Avas  equally  respectable  as  the  guardian  of  the  revenues  of  the 
see.  Rumor  whispered  he  retained  the  vices  of  his  youth,  and  that 
a  passion  for  the  fair  se.x:  formed  an  item  ui  the  list  of  his  weak- 
nesses; but  so  far  from  being  convicted  by  seventy  witnesses,  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  directly  criminated  by  one.  In  short, 
I  look  upon  these  aspersions  as  the  effects  of  mere  malice.  How  is 
it  possible  a  buccaneer  should  have  been  so  good  a  scholar  as  Blaclf- 
bourne  certainly  was?  He  who  had  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the 
classics,  (particularly  of  the  Greek  tragedians,)  as  to  be  able  to  read 
them  with  the  same  ease  as  he  could  Shakspeare,  nnist  have  taken 
great  pains  to  acquire  the  learned  languages,  and  have  had  both 
leisure  and  good  masters.  But  he  was  undoubtedly  educated  at 
Clirist  Church  College,  Oxford.  He  is  allowed  to  have  been  a  pleas- 
ant man;  this,  however,  was  turned  against  him,  by  its  being  said, 
'  he  gained  more  hearts  than  souls.' " 

"  The  only  voice  that  could  soothe  the  passions  of  the  savage  (Al- 
phoufjo  III.)  was  that  of  an  amiable  and  virtuous  wife,  the  sole  ob- 
ject of  his  love;  the  voice  of  Donna  Isabella,  the  daughter  of  the 
Duke  of  Savoy,  and  the  grand-daughter  of  rhillip  II.,  king  of  Spain. 
Her  dying  words  sunk  deep  into  his  memory;  his  fierce  spirit  melted 
into  tears;  and  after  the  last  embrace,  Alphonso  retii-ed  into  his 
chamber  to  bewail  his  irreparable  loss,  and  to  nu'ditate  on  the 
vanity  of  human  Me/'—Miscellaneovs  Works  of  Gibbon,  new  edit., 
8vo.  vol.  iii.  p.  473. 


^K 


LARA.* 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 

I. 

The  Serfs  are  glad  through  Lara's  wide  domain,! 

And  slavery  half  forgets  her  feudal  chain; 

He,  their  unhoped,  but  unforgotten  lord — 

The  long  self-exiled  chieftain  is  restored: 

There  be  bright  faces  in  the  busy  hall, 

Bowls  on  the  board,  and  bann'fers  on  the  wall; 

Far  chequering  o'er  the  pictured  window,  plays  , 

The  unwonted  fagots'  hospitable  blaze; 

And  gay  retainers  gather  round  the  hearth. 

With  tongues  all  loudness,  and  with  eyes  all  mirth. 

II. 

The  chief  of  Lara  is  retum'd  again: 
And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  main? 
Left  by  his  sire,  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 
Lord  of  himself; — that  heritage  of  woe. 
That  fearful  empire  which  the  human  breast 
But  holds  to  rob  the  heart  within  of  rest! — 
With  none  to  check,  and  few  to  point  in  time 
The  thousand  paths  that  slope  the  way  to  crime; 
Then,  when  he  most  required  commandment,  then 
Had  .Lara's  daring  boyhood  govern'd  men. 
It  skills  not,  l)oots  not,  step  by  step  to  trace 
His  youth  through  all  the  mazes  of  its  race; 
Short  was  the  course  his  restlessness  had  run, 
But  long  enough  to  leave  him  half  undone. 

III. 

And  Lara  left  In  youth  his  fatherland; 

But  from  the  hour  he  waved  his  parting  hand 

*  The  reader  of  "  Lara"  may  probably  regard  it  as  a  sequel  to  a 
Tpo^pi  that  recently  appeared:"*  whether  the  cast  of  the  hero's  char- 
acter, the  turn  of  nis  adventures,  and  the  general  outline  and  color- 
ing of  the  story,  may  not  encourage  such  a  supposition,  shall  be  left 
to  his  determination. 

t  The  reader  is  advertised  that  the  name  only  of  Lara  bein^  Span- 
ish, and  no  circumstance  of  local  or  national  description  fixing  the 
scene  or  hero  of  the  poem  to  any  country  or  age,  the  word  "Serf," 
which  could  not  be  correctly  applied  to  the  lower  classes  in  Spain, 
who  were  never  vassals  of  the  soil,  has  nevertheless  been  employed 
to  designate  the  followers  of  our  fictitious  chieftain. 
*  "The  Corsair." 

♦» i- 


44  LARA.  [canto  i. 

Each  trace  wax'd  fainter  of  his  course,  till  all 
Had  nearly  ceased  his  memory  to  recall. 
Ilia  sire  was  dust,  his  vassals  could  declare, 
'Twas  all  they  knew,  that  Lara  was  not  there; 
Nor  sent,  nor  came  he,  till  conjecture  grew 
Cold  in  the  many,  anxious  in  the  few. 
His  hall  scarce  echoes  with  his  wonted  name, 
His  portrait  darkens  in  its  fading  frame, 
Another  chief  consoled  his  destined  bride, 
The  young  forgot  him,  and  the  old  had  died; 
"  Yet  doth  he  live!"  exclaims  the  impatient  heir, 
And  sighs  for  sables  which  he  must  not  wear. 
A  hundred  scutcheons  deck  with  gloomy  grace 
The  Laras'  last  and  longest  dwelling-place; 
But  one  is  absent  from  the  mouldering  file, 
That  now  were  welcome  to  that  Gothic  pile. 

IV. 

He  comes  at  last  in  sudden  loneliness. 
And  whence  they  lixxofr  not,  why  they  need  not  guess; 
,     They  more  might  marvel,  when  the  greeting's  o'er. 
Not  that  he  came,  but  came  not  long  before: 
No  train  is  his  beyond  a  single  page, 
Of  foreign  aspect  and  of  tender  age. 
Years  had  roll'd  on,  and  fast  they  speed  away 
To  those  that  wander  as  to  those  that  stay; 
But  lack  of  tidings  from  another  clime 
Had  lent  a  flagging  wing  to  weary  Time. 
They  see,  they  recognize,  yet  almost  deem 
The  present  dubious,  or  the  past  a  dream. 

He  lives,  nor  yet  is  past  his  manhood's  prime, 
Though  sear'd  by  toil,  and  something  touch'd  by  time; 
His  faults,  whate'er  they  were,  if  scarce  forgot. 
Might  be  untaught  him  by  his  varied  lot; 
Nor  good  nor  ill  of  late  were  known,  his  name 
Might  yet  uphold  his  patrimonial  fame. 
His  soul  in  youth  was  haughty,  but  his  sins 
No  more  than  pleasure  from  the  stripling  wins; 
And  such,  if  not  yet  harden'd  in  their  course. 
Might  be  redeemM,  nor  ask  a  long  remorse. 


And  they  Indeed  were  changed— 'tis  quickly  seen, 

Whate'er  he  be,  'twas  not  what  he  had  been: 

That  brow  in  furrow'd  lines  had  fix'd  at  last, 

And  spake  of  passions,  but  of  passion  past; 

The  pride,  but  not  the  fire,  of  early  days. 

Coldness  of  mien,  and  carelessness  of  praise; 

A  hisjh  demeanor,  and  a  glance  that  took 

Their  thoughts  from  otliers  by  a  single  look; 

And  that  sarcastic  levity  of  tongue, 

The  stinging  of  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 

That  darts  in  seeming  playfulness  around. 

And  makes  those  feel  that  will  not  own  the  wound: 

All  these  seem'd  his,  and  something  more  beneath 

Than  glance  could  well  reveal,  or  accent  breathe. 


i- 


* . ^ 

OAXTO  1.]  LARA.  45 

Ambition,  glory,  love,  the  common  aim 

That  some  can  conquer,  and  that  all  would  claim, 

Within  his  breast  appear'd  no  more  to  strive, 

Yet  seem'd  as  lately  they  had  been  alive; 

And  some  deep  feeling  it  were  vain  to  trace 

At  moments  lighten'd  o'er  his  livid  face. 


Not  much  he  loved  long  question  of  the  past. 
Nor  told  of  wondrous  wilds,  and  deserts  vast, 
In  those  far  lands  where  he  had  wander'd  lone. 
And — as  himself  would  have  it  seem — unknown: 
Yet  these  in  vain  his  eye  could  scarcely  scan, 
Nor  glean  experience  from  his  fellow  man; 
But  what  he  had  beheld  he  shunn'd  to  show, 
As  hardly  worth  a  stranger's  care  to  know; 
If  still  more  prying  such  inquiry  grew. 
His  brow  fell  darker,  and  his  words  more  few. 


Not  unrejoiced  to  see  him  once  again. 
Warm  was  his  welcome  to  the  haunts  of  men; 
Bom  of  high  lineage,  link'd  in  high  command, 
He  mingled  with  the  magnates  of  his  land; 
Join'd  the  carousals  of  the  great  and  gay, 
And  saw  them  smile  or  sigh  their  hours  away; 
But  still  he  only  saw,  and  did  not  share 
The  common  pleasure  or  the  general  care; 
He  did  not  follow  what  they  all  pursued, 
With  hope  still  baffled,  still  to  be  renew'd; 
Nor  shadowy  honor,  nor  substantial  gain. 
Nor  beauty's  preference,  and  the  rival's  pain: 
Around  him  some  mysterious  circle  thrown 
Repell'd  approach,  and  show'd  him  still  alone; 
Upon  his  eye  sate  something  of  reproof. 
That  kept  at  least  frivolity  aloof; 
And  things  more  timid  that  beheld  him  near. 
In  silence  gazed,  or  whisper'd  mutual  fear; 
And  they  the  wiser,  friendlier  few  confess' d 
They  deem'd  him  better  than  his  air  express'd. 


'Twas  strange — in  youth  all  action  and  all  life, 
Burning  for  pleasure,  not  averse  from  strife; 
Woman — the  field — ^the  ocean — all  that  gave 
Promise  of  gladness,  peril  of  a  grave, 
In  turn  he  tried — he  ransack'd  all  below. 
And  found  his  recompense  in  joy  or  woe. 
No  tame,  trite  medium;  for  his  feelings  sought 
In  that  intenseness  an  escape  from  thought: 
The  tempest  of  his  heart  in  scorn  had  gazed 
On  that  the  feebler  elements  hath  raised; 
The  rapture  of  his  heart  had  look'd  on  high. 
And  ask'd  if  greater  dwelt  beyond  the  sky: 


* 


46  LARA.  [CAKTO  JL 

Chain'd  to  excess,  the  slave  of  each  extreme, 
How  woke  he  from  the  wildness  of  that  dream  ? 
Alas!  he  told  not — but  he  did  awake 
To  curse  the  wither 'd  heart  that  would  not  break. 


IX. 

Books,  for  his  volume  heretofore  was  Man, 

With  eye  more  curious  he  appear'd  to  scan, 

And  oft,  in  sudden  mood,  for  many  a  day 

From  all  communion  he  would  start  away: 

And  then,  his  rarely  call'd  attendants  said. 

Through  night's  long  hours  would  sound  his  hurried  tread 

O'er  the  dark  gallery,  where  his  fathers  frowu'd 

In  rude  but  antique  portraiture  around. 

They  heard,  but  whisper' d — ^Hhat  must  not  be  known — 

The  sound  of  words  less  earthly  than  his  own. 

Yes,  they  who  chose  might  smile,  but  some  had  seen 

They  scarce  knew  what,  but  more  than  should  have  been. 

Why  gazed  he  so  upon  the  ghastly  head 

Which  hands  profane  had  gather'd  from  the  dead, 

That  still  beside  his  open'd  volume  lay. 

As  if  to  startle  all  save  him  away? 

Why  slept  he  not  when  others  were  at  rest? 

Why  heard  no  music,  and  received  no  guest? 

All  was  not  well,  they  deem'd — but  where  the  wrong? 

Some  knew  perchance — but  'twere  a  tale  too  long; 

And  such  besides  were  too  discreetly  wise 

To  more  than  hint  their  knowledge  in  surmise; 

But  if  they  would — they  could" — around  the  board, 

Thus  Lara's  vassals  prattled  of  their  lord. 


It  was  the  night — and  Lara's  glassy  stream 

The  stars  are  studding,  each  with  imaged  beam: 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray. 

And  yet  they  glide  like  happiness  away; 

Reflecting  far  and  fairy-like  from  high 

The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky: 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 

And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee; 

Such  in  her  chaplet  infant  Dian  wove. 

And  Innocence  would  offer  to  her  love. 

These  deck  the  shore;  the  waves  their  channel  make 

In  windings  bright  and  mazy  like  the  snake. 

All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air. 

You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there; 

Secure  that  nought  of  evil  could  delight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night! 

It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good: 

So  Lara  deem'd,  nor  longer  there  he  stood, 

But  tum'd  in  silenc^e  to  his  castle-gate; 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate: 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days. 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze, 


*iir 


^H- 


CANTO  I.]  LARA.  47 

Of  nights  more  Boft  and  frequent,  hearts  that  now— 
No-T-no — the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow, 
Unfelt — unsparing — but  a  night  like  this, 
A  night  of  beauty  mock'cl  such  breast  as  his. 


He  tum'd  within  his  solitary  hall, 

And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall; 

There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times, 

'Twas  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes, 

Save  vague  tradition;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 

That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults; 

And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page, 

That  speeds  the  specious  tale  from  age  to  age: 

When  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies, 

And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies. 

He  wandering  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeams  shone 

Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone, 

And  the  high  fretted  roof,  and  saints,  that  there 

O'er  Gothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer, 

Reflected  in  fantastic  figures  grew, 

Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life,  to  view; 

His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 

And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume. 

Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 

His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

XII. 

'Twas  midnight — all  was  slumber;  the  lone  light 
Dimm'd  in  the  lamp,  as  loth  to  break  the  night. 
Hark!  there  be  murmurs  heard  in  Lara's  hall — 
A  sound — a  voice — a  shriek — a  fearful  call ! 
A  long,  loud  shriek — and  silence — did  they  hear 
That  frantic  echo  burst  the  sleeping  ear? 
They  heard  and  rose,  and  tremulously  brave 
Rushed  where  the  sound  invoked  their  aid  to  save; 
They  come  with  half-lit  tapers  in  their  hands. 
And  snatch'd  in  startled  haste  unbelted  brands. 


Cold  as  the  marble  where  his  length  was  laid, 

Pale  as  the  beam  that  o'er  his  features  play'd, 

Was- Lara  stretch'd;  his  half-drawn  sabre  near, 

Dropp'd  it  should  seem  in  more  than  nature's  fear; 

Yet  he  was  firm,  or  had  been  firm  till  now. 

And  still  defiance  knit  his  gather'd  brow; 

Though  mix'd  with  terror,  senseless  as  he  lay, 

There  lived  upon  his  lip  the  wish  to  slay; 

Some  half-form'd  threat  in  utterance  there  had  died. 

Some  imprecation  of  despairing  pride; 

His  eye  was  almost  seal'd,  but  not  forsook 

Even  in  its  trance  the  gladiator's  look. 

That  oft  awake  his  aspect  could  disclose. 

And  now  was  fix'd  in  horrible  repose. 

They  raise  him — bear  him:  hush!  he  breathes,  he  speaks. 

The  swarthy  blush  recolors  in  his  cheeks,  I 

\ ^^ it 


48  LARA.  [CANTO  i. 

His  lip  resumes  its  red,  his  eye,  though  dim, 
Rolls  wide  and  wide,  each  slowly  quivering  limb 
Recalls  its  function,  but  his  words  are  strung 
In  terms  that  seem  not  of  his  native  tongue; 
Distinct  but  strange,  enough  they  understand 
To  deem  them  accents  of  another  land. 
And  such  they  were,  and  meant  to  meet  an  ear 
That  hears  him  not— alas!  that  cannot  hearl 

XIV. 

His  page  approach'd,  and  he  alone  appear'd 

To  know  the  import  of  the  words  they  heard; 

And  by  the  changes  of  his  cheek  and  brow 

They  were  not  such  as  Lara  should  avow, 

Nor  he  interpret,  yet  with  less  surprise 

Than  those  around  their  chieftain's  state  he  eyes, 

But  Lara's  prostrate  form  he  bent  beside, 

And  in  that  tongue  which  seem'd  his  own  replied, 

And  Lara  heeds  those  tones  that  gently  seem 

To  soothe  away  the  horrors  of  his  dream; 

If  dream  it  were,  that  thus  could  overthrow 

A  breast  that  needed  not  ideal  woe. 


Whate'er  his  frenzy  dream'd  or  eye  beheld, 
If  yet  remember'd  ne'er  to  be  reveal'd, 
Rests  at  his  heart:  the  custom'd  morning  came, 
And  breathed  new  vigor  in  his  shaking  frame; 
And  solace  sought  he  none  from  priest  nor  leech, 
And  soon  the  same  in  movement  and  in  speech 
As  heretofore  he  fiU'd  the  passing  hours, 
Nor  less  he  smiles,  nor  more  his  forehead  lours 
Than  these  were  wont;  and  if  the  coming  night 
Appear'd  less  welcome  now  to  Lara's  sight. 
He  to  his  marvelling  vassals  show'd  it  not, 
Whose  shuddering  proved  their  fear  was  less  forgot. 
In  trembling  pairs  (alone  they  dared  not)  crawl 
The  astonish'd  slaves,  and  shun  the  fated  hall; 
The  waving  banner,  and  the  clapping  door; 
The  rustling  tapestry,  and  the  echoing  floor; 
The  long  dim  shadows  of  surrounding  trees, 
The  flapping  bat,  the  night  song  of  the  breeze; 
Aught  they  behold  or  hear  their  thought  appalls 
As  evening  saddens  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls. 


Vain  thought!  that  hour  of  ne'er  unravell'd  gloom 
Came  not  again,  or  Lara  could  assume 
A  seeming  of  forgetfulness  that  made 
His  vassals  more  amazed  nor  less  afraid — 
Had  memory  vanish'd  then  with  sense  restored? 
Since  word,  nor  look,  nor  gesture  of  their  lord 
Betray 'd  a  feeling  that  recall' d  to  these 
That  fever'd  moment  of  his  mind's  disease. 
Was  it  a  dream?  was  his  the  voice  that  spoke 
Those  strange  wild  accents;  his  the  cry  toat  broke 


i 


A. 


CANTO  I.] 


LARA. 


49 


Their  slumber?  his  the  oppress'd  o'erlabor'd  heart 
That  ceased  to  beat,  the  look  that  made  them  start? 
Could  he  who  thus  had  suffered,  so  forget 
When  such  as  saw  that  suffering  shudder  yet? 
Or  did  that  silence  prove  his  memory  fix'd 
Too  deep  for  words,  indelible,  unmix'd 
In  that  corroding  secrecy  which  gnaws 
The  heart  to  show  the  effect,  but  not  the  cause? 
Not  so  in  him;  his  breast  had  buried  both. 
Nor  common  gazers  could  discern  the  growth 
Of  thoughts  that  mortal  lips  must  leave  half  told; 
They  choke  the  feeble  words  that  would  unfold. 


In  him  inexplicably  mix'd  appear'd 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd; 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot. 

In  praise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot; 

His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  others'  prate — 

They  guess'd— they  gazed— they  fain  would  know  his  fate. 

What  had  he  been?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 

Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known? 

A  hater  of  his  kind?  yet  some  would  say, 

With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amidst  the  gay; 

But  own'd  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near, 

Waned  in  its  mirth  and  withered  to  a  sneer; 

That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by, 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye: 

Yet  there  was  softness  too  in  his  regard. 

At  times,  a  heart  as  not  by  nature  hard, 

But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  seem'd  to  chide 

Such  weakness,  as  unworthy  of  its  pride, 

And  steel'd  itself,  as  scorning  to  redeem 

One  doubt  from  others'  half  withheld  esteem; 

In  self-inflicted  penance  of  a  breast 

Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest; 

In  vigilance  of  grief  that  would  compel 

The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 


There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all: 
As  if  the  worst  had  fall'n  which  could  befall, 
He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world. 
An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurled; 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 
By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped; 
But  'scaped  in  vain,  for  in  their  memory  yet 
His  mind  would  half  exult  and  half  regret: 
With  more  capacity  for  love  than  earth 
Bestows  on  most  of  mortal  mould  and  birth, 
His  early  dreams  of  good  out  stripp'd  the  truth, 
And  troubled  manhood  follow'd  baffled  youth; 
With  thought  of  years  in  phantom  chase  misspent 
And  wasted  powers  for  better  purpose  lent; 
c 


r 


^ ^ 

50  LARA.  [CANTO  I. 

And  fiery  passions  that  had  pour'd  their  wrath 

In  hurried  desolation  o'er  his  path, 

And  left  the  better  feelings  all  at  strife 

In  wild  reflection  o'er  his  stormy  life; 

But  haughty  still,  and  loth  himself  to  blame, 

He  call'd  on  Nature's  self  to  share  the  shame, 

And  charged  all  faults  upon  the  fleshly  form 

She  gave  to  clog  the  soul,  and  feast  the  worm; 

Till  he  at  last  confounded  good  and  ill. 

And  half  mistook  for  fate  the  acts  of  will: 

Too  high  for  common  selfishness,  he  could 

At  times  resign  his  own  for  others'  good, 

But  not  in  pity,  not  because  he  ought. 

But  in  some  strange  perversity  of  thought, 

That  sway'd  him  onward  with  a  secret  pride 

To  do  what  few  or  none  would  do  beside; 

And  this  same  impulse  would,  in  tempting  time, 

Mislead  his  spirit  equally  to  crime; 

So  much  he  soar'd  beyond,  or  sunk  beneath 

The  men  with  whom  he  felt  condemn'd  to  breathe, 

And  long'd  by  good  or  ill  to  separate 

Himself  from  all  who  shared  his  mortal  state; 

His  mind  abhorring  this  had  fix'd  her  throne 

Far  from  the  world,  in  regions  of  her  own; 

Thus  coldly  passing  all  that  pass'd  below. 

His  blood  in  temperate  seeming  now  would  flow: 

Ah!  happier  if  it  ne'er  with  guilt  had  glow'd, 

But  ever  in  that  icy  smoothness  fiow'd: 

'Tis  true,  with  other  men  their  path  he  walk'd, 

And  like  the  rest  in  seeming  did  and  talk'd. 

Nor  outraged  Reason's  rules  by  flaw  nor  start, 

His  madness  was  not  of  the  head,  but  heart; 

And  rarely  wander'd  in  his  speech,  or  drew 

His  thoughts  so  forth  as  to  offend  the  view. 


With  all  that  chilling  mystery  of  mien. 
And  seeming  gladness  to  remain  unseen; 
He  had  (if  'twere  not  nature's  boon)  an  art 
Of  fixing  memory  on  another's  heart: 
It  was  not  love,  perchance — nor  hate — nor  aught 
That  words  can  image  to  express  the  thought; 
But  they  who  saw  him  did  not  see  in  vain. 
And  once  beheld,  would  ask  of  him  again: 
And  those  to  whom  he  spake  remember'd  well, 
And  on  the  words,  however  light,  would  dwell: 
None  knew  nor  how,  nor  why,  but  he  entwined 
Himself  perforce  around  the  hearer's  mind; 
There  he  was  stamp'd,  in  liking,  or  in  hate. 
If  greeted  once;  however  briefthe  date 
That  friendsliip,  pity,  or  aversion  knew, 
Still  there  within  the  inmost  thought  he  grew. 
You  could  not  penetrate  his  soul,  but  found, 
Despite  your  wonder,  to  your  own  he  wound; 


HI- 


r 


-i 


CA^TTO  I.]  LARA.  51 

His  presence  haunted  still;  and  from  tlic  breast 
He  lorced  an  all-unwilling  interest; 
Vain  was  the  struggle  in  that  mental  net, 
His  spirit  seem'd  to  dare  you  to  forget! 


There  is  a  festival,  where  knights  and  dames, 
And  aught  that  wealth  or  lofty  lineage  claims, 
Appear — a  high-born  and  a  welcomed  guest 
To  Otho's  hall  came  Lara  with  the  rest. 
The  long  caroi^sal  shakes  the  illumined  hall, 
Well  speeds  alike  the  banquet  and  the  ball; 
And  the  gay  dance  of  bounding  Beauty's  train 
Links  gracie  and  harmony  in  happiest  chain: 
Blest  are  the  early  hearts  and  gentle  hands 
That  mingle  there  in  well  according  bands; 
It  is  a  sight  the  careful  brow  might  smooth, 
And  make  Age  smile,  and  dream  itself  to  youth, 
And  Youth  forget  such  hour  was  pass'd  on  earth, 
So  springs  the  exulting  bosom  to  that  mirth  1 


And  Lara  gazed  on  these  sedately  glad. 

His  brow  belied  him  if  his  soul  was  sad. 

And  his  glance  follow'd  fast  each  fluttering  fair, 

Whose  steps  of  lightness  woke  no  echo  there: 

He  lean'd  against  the  lofty  pillar  nigh 

With  folded  arms  and  long  attentive  eye, 

Nor-mark'd  a  glance  so  sternly  fix'd  on  his, 

111  brook'd  high  Lara  scrutiny  like  this: 

At  length  he  caught  it,  'tis  a  face  unknown, 

But  seems  as  searching  his,  and  his  alone; 

Prying  and  dark,  a  stranger's  by  his  mien. 

Who  still  till  now  had  gazed  on  him  unseen; 

At  length  encountering  meets  the  mutual  gaze 

Of  keen  inquiry,  and  of  mute  amaze; 

On  Lara's  glance  emotion  gathering  grew, 

As  if  distrusting  that  the  stranger  threw; 

Along  the  stranger's  aspect  fix'd  and  stem 

FlaslTd  more  than  thence  the  vulgai*  eye  could  learn. 

XXII. 

"  'Tis  he!"  the  stranger  cried,  and  those  that  heard 

Re-echo'd  fa'st  and  far  the  whisper'd  word. 

"  'Tis  he!" — *'  'Tis  who?"  they  question  far  and  near. 

Till  louder  accents  rung  on  Lara's  ear; 

So  widely  spread,  few  bosoms  well  could  brook 

The  general  marvel,  or  that  single  look; 

But  Lara  stirr'd  not,  changed  not,  the  surprise 

That  sprung  at  first  to  his  arrested  eyes 

Seem'd  now  subsided,  neither  sunk  nor  raised 

Glanced  his  eye  round,  though  still  the  stranger  gazed; 

And  drawing  nigh,  exclaimed  with  haughty  sneer, 

"  'Tis  he!— how  came  he  thence?— what  doth  he  here?" 


^^ 


^^ 


LARA.  [canto  I. 


It  were  too  much  for  Lara  to  pass  by 
Such  question,  so  repeated  fierce  and  high; 
With  look  collected,  but  with  accent  cold, 
More  mildly  firm  than  petulantly  bold, 
He  tum'd,  and  met  the  inquisitorial  tone — 
"  My  name  is  Lara! — when  thine  own  is  known, 
Doubt  not  my  fitting  answer  to  requite 
The  unlook'd  for  courtesy  of  such  a  knight. 
'Tis  Lara! — further  wouldst  thou  mark  or  ask? 
I  shun  no  question,  and  I  wear  no  mask." 
*'  Thou  shunn'st  no  question!  Ponder — is  there  none 
Thy  heart  must  answer,  though  thine  ear  would  shun? 
And  deem'st  thou  me  unknown  too?    Gaze  againi 
At  least  thy  memory  was  not  given  in  vain. 
Oh!  never  canst  thou  cancel  half  her  debt, 
Eternity  forbids  thee  to  forget." 
With  slow  and  searching  glance  upon  his  face 
Grew  Lara's  eyes,  but  nothing  there  could  trace 
They  knew,  or  chose  to  know— with  dubious  look 
He  deign'd  no  answer,  but  his  head  he  shook, 
And  half  contemptuous  turn'd  to  pass  away; 
But  the  stern  stranger  motion'd  him  to  stay. 
"A  word! — I  charge  thee  stay,  and  answer  here 
To  one,  who,  wert  thou  noble,  were  thy  peer, 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art — nay,  frown  not,  lord, 
If  false,  'tis  easy  to  disprove  the  word- 
But  as  thou  wast  and  art,  on  thee  looks  down, 
Distrusts  thy  smiles,  but  shakes  not  at  thy  frown. 
Art  thou  not  he?  whose  deeds — " 

"  Whate'er  I  be. 
Words  wild  as  these,  accusers  like  to  thee, 
I  list  no  further;  those  with  whom  they  weigh 
May  hear  the  rest,  nor  venture  to  gainsay 
The  wondrous  tale  no  doubt  thy  tongue  can  tell. 
Which  thus  begins  so  courteously  and  well. 
Let  Otho  cherish  here  his  polish 'd  guest. 
To  him  my  thanks  and  thoughts  shall  be  express'd." 
And  here  their  wondering  host  hath  interposed — 
*'  Whate'er  there  be  between  you  undisclosed, 
This  is  no  time  nor  fitting  place  to  mar 
The  mirthful  meeting  with  a  wordy  war. 
If  thou,  Sir  Ezzelin,  hast  aught  to  show 
Which  it  befits  Count  Lara's  ear  to  know, 
To-morrow,  here,  or  elsewhere,  as  may.  best 
Beseem  your  mutual  judgment,  speak  the  rest; 
I  pledge  myself  for  thee,  as  not  unknown, 
Though,  like  Count  Lara,  now  retum'd  alone 
From  other  lands,  almost  a  stranger  grown; 
And  if  from  Lara's  blood  and  gentle  birth 
I  augur  right  of  courage  and  of  worth, 
He  will  not  that  untainted  line  belie, 
Nor  aught  that  knighthood  may  accord  deny.'* 
"  To-morrow  be  it,"  Ezzelin  replied, 
"And  here  our  several  worth  and  truth  be  tried; 


CANTO  I.]  LARA.  53 


I  gage  my  life,  ray  falchion  to  attest 

My  words,  so  may  I  mingle  with  the  blest!" 

What  answers  Lara?  to  its  centre  shrunk 

His  sou],  in  deep  abstraction  sudden  sunk; 

The  words  of  many,  and  the  eyes  of  all 

That  there  were  gather'd,  seem'd  on  him  to  fall; 

But  his  were  silent,  his  appear'd  to  stray 

In  far  forgetfulness  away — away — 

Alas!  that  heedlessness  of  all  around 

Bespoke  remembrance  only  too  profound. 

xxfv. 

*' To-morrow! — ay,  to-morrow!"  further  word 

Than  those  repeated  none  from  Lara  heard; 

Upon  his  brow  no  outward  passion  spoke. 

From  his  large  eye  no  flashing  anger  broke; 

Yet  there  was  something  fix'd  in  that  low  tone 

Which  show'd  resolve,  determined,  though  unknown. 

He  seized  his  cloak— his  head  he  slightly  bow'd, 

And  passing  Ezzelin  he  left  the  crowd; 

And,  as  he  pass'd  him,  smiling  met  the  frown 

With  which  that  chieftain's  brow  would  bear  him  down: 

It  was  nor  smile  of  mirth,  nor  struggling  pride 

That  curbs  to  scorn  the  wrath  it  cannot  hide; 

But  that  of  one  in  his  own  heart  secure 

Of  all  that  he  would  do,  or  could  endure. 

Could  this  mean  peace?  the  calmness  of  the  good? 

Or  guilt  grown  old  in  desperate  hardihood? 

Alas!  tod  like  in  confidence  are  each 

For  man  to  trust  to  mortal  look  or  speech; 

From  deeds,  and  deeds  alone,  may  he  discern 

Truths  which  it  wrings  the  unpractised  heart  to  learn. 

XXV. 

And  Lara  call'd  his  page,  and  went  his  way — 
Well  could  that  stripling  word  or  sign  obey: 
His  only  follower  from  those  climes  afar 
Where  the  soul  glows  beneath  a  brighter  star; 
For  Lara  left  the  shore  from  whence  he  sprung, 
In  duty  patient,  and  sedate  though  young; 
Silent  as  him  he  served,  his  fate  appears 
Above  his  station,  and  beyond  his  years. 
Though  not  unknown  the  tongue  of  Lara's  land, 
In  such  from  him  he  rarely  heard  command; 
But  fleet  his  step,  and  clear  his  tones  would  come, 
When  Lara's  lip  breathed  forth  the  words  of  home: 
Those  accents,  as  his  native  mountains  dear, 
Awake  their  absent  echoes  in  his  ear. 
Friends',  kindreds',  parents',  wonted  voice  recall, 
Now  lost,  abjured,  for  one— his  friend,  his  all: 
For  him  earth  now  disclosed  no  other  guicle; 
What  marvel  then  he  rarely  left  his  side? 


Light  was  his  form,  and  darkly  delicate 
That  brow  whereon  his  native  sun  had  sate. 


»♦ 


54  LARA.  [canto  i. 

But  had  not  marr'd,  though  in  his  beams  he  grew, 

The  cheek  where  oft  the  unbidden  blush  shone  through; 

Yet  not  such  blush  as  mounts  when  health  would  show 

All  the  heart's  hue  in  that  delighted  glow; 

But  'twas  a  hectic  tint  of  secret  care 

That  for  a  burning  moment  fever'd  there; 

And  the  wild  sparkle  of  his  eye  seem'd  caught 

From  high,  and  lightened  with  electric  thought, 

Though  its  black  orb  those  long  low  lashes'  fringe 

Had  temper'd  with  a  melancholy  tinge; 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  than  of  pride  was  there. 

Or,  if  'twere  grief,  a  grief  that  none  should  share: 

And  pleased  not  him  the  sports  that  plej\se  his  age, 

The  tricks  of  youth,  the  frolics  of  the  pafje; 

For  hours  on  Lara  he  would  fix  his  glance, 

As  all-forgotten  in  that  watchful  trance; 

And  from  his  chief  withdrawn,  he  wander'd  lone, 

Brief  were  his  answers,  and  his  questions  none; 

He  walked  the  wood,  his  sport  some  foreign  book; 

His  resting-place  the  bank  that  curbs  the  brook: 

He  seem'd,  like  him  he  served,  to  live  apart 

From  all  that  lures  the  eye,  and  fills  the  heart; 

To  know  no  brotherhood,  and  take  from  earth 

No  gift  beyond  that  bitter  boon — our  birth. 


If  aught  he  loved,  'twas  Lara;  but  was  shown 

His  faith  in  reverence  and  in  deeds  alone; 

In  mute  attention;  and  his  care,  which  guess'd 

Each  wish,  fulfill'd  it  ere  the  tongue  express'd. 

Still  there  was  haughtiness  in  all  he  did, 

A  spirit  deep  that  brook'd  not  to  be  chid; 

His  zeal,  though  more  than  that  of  servile  hands, 

In  act  alone  obeys,  his  air  commands; 

As  if  'twas  Lara's  less  than  his  desire 

That  thus  he  served,  but  surely  not  for  hire. 

Slight  were  the  tasks  enjoin'd  him  by  his  lord, 

To  hold  the  stirrup,  or  to  bear  the  sword; 

To  tune  his  lute,  or,  if  he  will'd  it  more. 

On  tomes  of  other  times  and  tongues  to  pore; 

But  ne'er  to  mingle  with  the  menial  train, 

To  whom  he  show'd  not  deference  nor  disdain, 

But  that  well-woni  reserve  which  proved  he  knew 

No  sympathy  with  that  familiar  crew: 

His  soul,  whate'er  his  station  or  his  stem, 

Could  bow  to  Lara,  not  descend  to  them. 

Of  higher  birth  he  seem  d,  and  better  days, 

Nor  mark  of  vulgar  toil  that  hand  betrays, 

So  femininely  white  it  niiirht  l)ospeak 

Another  sex,  when  match 'd  witli  that  smooth  cheek, 

But  for  his  garb,  and  something  in  his  gaze, 

More  wild  and  high  than  woman's  eye  betrays; 

A  latent  fierceness  that  far  more  became 

His  fiery  climate  than  his  tender  frame: 

True,  in  his  words  it  broke  not  from  his  breast, 

But  fro  vu  his  aspect  might  be  more  than  guess'd. 


r 


it 


^K 


CANTO  I.] 


LARA. 


55 


Kaled  his  name,  though  rumor  said  he  bore 

Another  ere  he  left  his  mountain  shore; 

For  sometimes  he  would  hear,  however  nigh, 

That  name  repeated  loud  without  reply, 

As  unfamiliar,  or,  if  roused  again, 

Strfrt  to  the  sound,  as  but  remember'd  then; 

Unless  'twas  Lara's  wonted  voice  that  spake, 

For  then,  ear,  eyes,  and  heart  would  all  awake. 


He  had  look'd  down  upon  the  festive  hall. 

And  mark'd  that  sudden  strife  so  mark'd  of  all; 

And  when  the  crowd  around  and  near  him  told 

Their  wonder  at  the  calmness  of  the  bold, 

Their  marvel  how  the  high-bom  Lara  bore 

Such  insult  from  a  stranger,  doubly  sore. 

The  color  of  young  Kaled  went  and  came, 

The  lip  of  ashes,  and  the  cheek  of  flame; 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  dampening  heart-drops  threw 

The  sickening  iciness  of  that  cold  dew 

That  rises  as  the  busy  bosom  sinks 

With  heavy  thoughts  from  which  reflection  shrinks. 

Yes — there  be  things  which  we  must  dream  and  dare, 

And  execute  ere  thought  be  half  aware: 

Where'er  might  Kaled 's  be,  it  was  enow 

To  seal  his  lip,  but  agonize  his  brow. 

He  gazed  on  Ezzelin  till  Lara  cast 

That  sidelong  smile  upon  the  knight  he  pass'd; 

When  Kaled  saw  that  smile  his  visage  fell, 

As  if  on  something  recognized  right  well: 

His  memory  read  in  such  a  meaning  more 

Than  Lara's  aspect  unto  others  wore. 

Forward  he  sprung — a  moment,  both  were  gone. 

And  all  within  that  hall  seem'd  left  alone; 

Each  had  so  fix'd  his  eye  on  Lara's  mien. 

All  had  so  mix'd  their  feelings  with  that  scene. 

That  when  his  long  dark  shadow  through  the  porch 

No  more  relieves  the  glare  of  yon  high  torch. 

Each  pulse  beats  quicker,  and  all  bosoms  seem 

To  bound  as  doubting  from  too  black  a  dream. 

Such  as  we  know  is  false,  yet  dread  in  sooth, 

Because  the  worst  is  ever  nearest  truth. 

And  they  are  gone — but  Ezzelin  is  there. 

With  thoughtful  visage  and  imperious  air; 

But  long  remain'd  not;  ere  an  hour  expired 

He  waved  his  hand  to  Otho,  and  retired. 


XXIX. 

The  crowd  are  gone,  the  revellers  at  rest; 
The  courteous  host,  and  all-approving  guest. 
Again  to  that  accustom'd  couch  must  creep 
"\Vnere  joy  subsides,  and  sorrow  sighs  to  sleep. 
And  man,  o'erlabor'd  with  his  being's  strife, 
Shrinks  to  that  sweet  forgetfulness  of  life: 
There  lie  love's  feverish  hope,  and  cunning's  guile. 
Hate's  working  brain,  and  lull'd  ambition'&rwile; 


ih 


u 


56  LARA.  [canto  ii. 

O'er  each  vain  eye  oblivion's  pinions  wave, 

And  quench'd  existence  crouches  in  a  grave. 

What  better  name  may  slumber's  bed  become? 

Night's  sepulchre,  the  universal  home. 

Where  weakness,  strength,  vice,  virtue,  sunk  supine, 

Alike  in  naked  helplessness  recline; 

Glad  for  awhile  to  heave  unconscious  breath. 

Yet  wake  to  wrestle  with  the  dread  of  death. 

And  shun,  though  day  but  dawn  on  ills  increased. 

That  sleep,  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least. 


i 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


Night  wanes— the  vapors  round  the  mountains  curl'd, 

Melt  into  mom,  and  Light  awakes  the  world. 

Man  has  another  day  to  swell  the  past. 

And  lead  him  near  to  little,  but  his  last; 

But  mighty  Nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  life  on  earth; 

Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendor  in  the  beam. 

Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream. 

Immortal  man!  behold  her  glories  shine. 

And  cry,  exultingly,  "  They  are  thine!" 

Gaze  on,  while  yet  thy  gladden'd  eye  may  see, 

A  morrow  comes  when  they  are  not  for  thee; 

And  grieve  what  may  above  thy  senseless  bier, 

Nor  earth  nor  sky  will  yield  a  single  tear; 

Nor  cloud  shall  gather  more,  nor  leaf  shall  fall, 

Nor  gale  breathe  forth  one  sigh  for  thee,  for  all; 

But  creeping  things  shall  revel  in  their  spoil, 

And  fit  thy  clay  to  fertilize  the  soil. 

II. 

'Tis  mom — 'tis  noon — assembled  in  the  hall, 
The  gather'd  chieftains  come  to  Othos  call: 
'Tis  now  the  promised  hour  that  must  proclaim 
The  life  or  death  of  Lara's  future  fame; 
When  Ezzeliu  his  charge  may  here  unfold. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  tale,  it  must  be  told. 
His  faith  was  pledged,  and  Lara's  promise  given. 
To  meet  it  in  the  eye  of  man  and  Heaven. 
Why  comes  he  not?    Such  truths  to  be  divulged, 
Methinks  the  accuser's  rest  is  long  indulged. 


The  hour  is  past,  and  Lara  too  is  there. 
With  self-confiding,  coldly  patient  air; 
Why  comes  not  Ezzelin?     The  hour  is  past, 
And  murmurs  rise,  and  Otho's  brow  's  o'ercast: 
"  I  know  my  friend!  his  faith  I  cannot  fear, 
If  yet  he  be  on  earth,  expect  him  here; 
The  roof  that  held  him  in  the  valley  stands 
Between  my  own  and  noble  Lara's  lands; 


CANTO  11.] 


LARA. 


57 


My  halls  from  sucli  a  guest  had  honor  gain'd, 
Nor  had  Sir  Ezzelin  his  host  disdain'd, 
But  that  some  previous  proof  forbade  his  stay, 
And  urged  him  to  prepare  against  to-day; 
The  word  I  pledged  for  his  I  pledge  again, 
Or  will  myself  redeem  his  knighthood^  stain." 

He  ceased — and  Lara  answer'd:  "I  am  here 

To  lend  at  thy  demand  a  listening  ear, 

To  tales  of  evil  from  a  stranger's  tongue, 

Whose  words  already  might  my  heart  have  wrung, 

But  that  I  deem'd  him  scarcely  less  than  mad. 

Or,  at  the  worst,  a  foe  ignobly  bad. 

I  know  him  not — but  me  it  seems  he  knew 

In  lands  where — but  I  must  not  trifle  too: 

Produce  this  babbler — or  redeem  the  pledge; 

Here  in  thy  hold,  and  with  thy  falchion's  edge." 

Proud  Otho  on  the  instant,  reddening,  threw 
His  glove  on  earth,  and  forth  his  sabre  Hew. 
"  The  last  alternative  befits  me  best, 
And  thus  I  answer  for  mine  absent  guest."  . 

With  cheek  unchanging  from  its  sallow  gloom. 

However  near  his  own  or  other's  tomb; 

With  hand,  whose  almost  careless  coolness  spoke 

Its  grasp  well-used  to  deal  the  sabre-stroke; 

With  eye,  though  calm,  determined  not  to  spare. 

Did  Lara  too  his  willing  weapon  bare. 

In  vain  the  circling  chieftains  round  them  closed, 

Por  Otho's  frenzy  would  not  be  opposed; 

And  from  his  lip  those  words  of  insult  fell — 

His  sword  is  good  who  can  maintain  them  well. 


Short  was  the  conflict;  furious,  blindly  rash, 

Vain  Otho  gave  his  bosom  to  the  gash: 

He  bled,  and  fell;  but  not  with  deadly  wound, 

Stretch'd  by  a  dextrous  sleight  along  the  ground. 

"  Demand  thy  life!"    He  answer'd  not:  and  then 

Prom  that  red  floor  he  ne'er  had  risen  again, 

Por  Lara's  brow  upon  the  moment  grew 

Almost  to  blackness  in  its  demon  hue; 

And  fiercer  shook  his  angry  falchion  now 

Than  when  his  foe's  was  levell'd  at  his  brow; 

Then  all  was  stern  collectedness  and  art, 

Now  rose  the  unleaven'd  hatred  of  his  heart; 

So  little  sparing  to  the  foe  he  fell'd. 

That  when  the  approaching  crowd  his  arm  withheld. 

He  almost  turn'd  the  thirsty  point  on  those 

Who  thus  for  mercy  dared  to  interpose; 

But  to  a  moment's  thought  that  purpose  bent; 

Yet  look'd  he  on  him  still  with  eye  intent, 

As  if  he  loathed  the  ineffectual  strife 

That  left  a  foe,  howe'er  o'erthrown,  with  life; 

As  if  to  search  how  far  the  wound  he  gave 

Had  sent  its  victim  onward  to  his  grave. 


♦* 


58  LARA.  [CANTO  ii. 


They  raised  the  bleeding  Otho,  and  the  Leech 
Forbade  all  present  question,  sign,  and  speech* 
The  others  met  within  a  neighboring  hall, 
And  he,  incensed  and  heedless  of  them  all, 
The  cause  and  conquc^ror  in  this  sudden  fray, 
In  haughty  silence  slowly  strode  away; 
He  bacK'd  his  steed,  his  homeward  path  he  took, 
Nor  cast  on  Otho's  tower  a  single  look. 

VI. 

But  where  was  he?  that  meteor  of  a  night, 
Who  menaced  but  to  disappear  with  light. 
Where  was  this  Ezzelin?  who  came  and  went 
To  leave  no  other  trace  of  his  intent. 
He  left  the  dome  of  Otho  long  ere  mom. 
In  darkness,  yet  so  well  the  path  was  worn 
He  could  not  miss  it:  near  his  dwelling  lay; 
But  there  he  was  not,  and  with  coming  day 
Came  fast  inquiry,  which  unfolded  nought 
Except  the  absence  of  the  chief  it  sought. 
A  chamber  tenantless,  a  steed  at  rest, 
His  host  alarm'd,  his  murmuring  squires  distress'd: 
Their  search  extends  along,  around  the  path, 
In  dread  to  meet  the  marks  of  prowlers'  wrath: 
But  none  are  there,  and  not  a  brake  hath  borne 
Nor  gout  of  blood,  nor  shred  of  mantle  torn; 
Nor  fall  nor  struggle  hath  defaced  the  grass, 
Which  still  retains  a  mark  where  murder  was; 
Nor  dabbling  fingers  left  to  tell  the  tale, 
The  bitter  print  of  each  convulsive  nail, 
When  agonized  hands  that  cease  to  guard. 
Wound  in  that  pang  the  smoothness  of  the  sward. 
Some  such  had  been,  if  here  a  life  was  reft, 
But  these  were  not;  and  aoubting  hope  is  left; 
And  strange  suspicion,  whispering  Lara's  name, 
Now  daily  mutters  o'er  his  blacken'd  fame; 
Then  sudden  silent  when  his  form  appear'd, 
Awaits  the  absence  of  the  thing  it  fear'd; 
Again  its  wonted  wondering  to  renew, 
And  dye  conjecture  with  a  darker  hue. 


Days  roll  along,  and  Otho's  wounds  are  heal'd, 

But  not  his  pride;  and  hate  no  more  conceal'd: 

He  was  a  man  of  power,  and  Lara's  foe. 

The  friend  of  all  who  sought  to  work  him  woe, 

And  from  his  country's  justice  now  demands 

Account  of  Ezzelin  at  Lara's  hands. 

Who  else  than  Lara  could  have  cause  to  fear 

His  presence?  who  had  made  him  disappear, 

If  not  the  man  on  whom  his  menaced  charge 

Had  sate  too  deeply  were  he  left  at  large? 

The  general  rumor  ignorantly  loud, 

The  mystery  dearest  to  the  curious  crowd; 


4 


CANTO  II.] 


LARA. 


The  seeming  friendlessness  of  him  who  strove 
To  win  no  confidence,  and  wake  no  love; 
The  sweeping  fierceness  which  his  soul  betray'd, 
The  skill  with  which  he  wielded  his  keen  blade; 
Where  had  his  arm  unwarlike  caught  that  art? 
Where  had  that  fierceness  grown  upon  his  heart? 
For  it  was  not  the  blind  capricious  rage 
A  word  can  kindle  and  a  word  assuage; 
But  the  deep  working  of  a  soul  unmix'd 
W^ith  aught  of  pity  where  its  wrath  had  fix'd; 
Such  as  long  power  and  overgorged  success 
Concentrates  into  all  that 's  merciless: 
These,  link'd  with  that  desire  which  ever  sways 
Mankind,  the  rather  to  condemn  than  praise, 
'Gainst  Lara  gathering  raised  at  length  a  storm, 
Such  as  himself  might  fear,  and  foes  would  form, 
And  he  must  answer  for  the  absent  head 
Of  one  that  haunts  him  still,  alive  or  dead. 


it* 


m 


f 


VIII. 

Within  that  land  was  many  a  malcontent, 

Who  cursed  the  tyranny  to  which  he  bent; 

That  soil  full  many  a  wringing  despot  saw, 

Who  work'd  his  wantonness  in  form  of  law; 

Long  war  without  and  frequent  broil  within 

Had  made  a  path  for  blood  and  giant  sin, 

That  waited  but  a  fignal  to  begin 

New  havoc,  such  as  civil  discord  blends. 

Which  knows  no  neuter,  owns  but  foes  or  friends; 

Fix'd  in  his  feudal  fortress  each  was  lord. 

In  word  and  deed  obey'd,  in  soul  abhorr'd. 

Thus  Lara  had  inlierited  his  lands, 

And  with  them  pining  hearts  and  sluggish  hands; 

But  that  Jong  absence  from  his  native  clime 

Had  left  him  stainless  of.  oppression's  crime, 

And  now,  diverted  by  his  milder  sway. 

All  dread  by  slow  degrees  had  worn  away; 

The  menials  felt  their  usual  awe  alone. 

But  more  for  him  than  them  that  fear  was  grown; 

They  deera'd  him  now  unhappy,  though  at  fii-st 

Their  evil  judgment  augur'd  of  the  worst. 

And  each  long  restless  night,  and  silent  mood, 

Was  traced  to  sickness,  fed  by  solitude: 

And  though  his  lonely  habits  threw  of  late 

Gloom  o'er  his  chamber,  cheerful  was  his  gate; 

For  thence  the  wretched  ne'er  unsoothed  withdrew, 

For  them,  at  least,  his  soul  compassion  knew. 

Cold  to  the  great,  contemptuous  to  the  high, 

The  humble  pass'd  not  his  unheeding  eye; 

Much  he  would  speak  not,  but  beneath  his  roof 

They  found  asylum  oft,  and  ne'er  reproof. 

And  they  who  watch'd  might  mark  that,  day  by  day, 

Some  new  retainers  gather'd  to  his  sway; 

But  most  of  late,  since  Ezzelin  was  lost, 

He  play'd  the  courteous  lord  and  bounteous  host: 


*♦ 


♦# ^ 

60  LARA.  [CANTOOi. 

Perchance  his  strife  with  Otho  made  him  dread 

Some  snare  prepared  for  his  obnoxious  head; 

Whate'er  his  view,  his  favor  more  obtains 

With  these,  the  people,  than  his  fellow  thanes. 

If  this  were  policy,  so  far  'twas  sound. 

The  million  judged  but  of  him  as  they  found; 

From  him  by  sterner  chiefs  to  exile  driven 

They  but  required  a  shelter,  and  'twas  given. 

By  him  no  peasant  mourn'd  his  rifled  cot. 

And  scarce  the  serf  could  murmur  o'er  his  lot; 

With  him  old  avarice  found  its  hoard  secure, 

With  him  contempt  forbore  to  mock  the  poor; 

Youth  present  cheer  and  promised  recompense 

Detain'd,  till  all  too  late  to  part  from  thence: 

To  hate  he  offer'  d,  with  the  coming  change, 

The  deep  reversion  of  dclay'd  revenge; 

To  love,  long  baiiled  by  the  unequal  match, 

The  well-won  charms  success  was  sure  to  snatch. 

All  now  was  ripe,  he  waits  but  to  proclaim 

That  slavery  nothing  which  was  still  a  name. 

The  moment  came,  the  hour  when  Otho  thought 

Secure  at  last  the  vengeance  which  he  sought: 

His  summons  found  the  destined  criminal 

Begirt  by  thousands  in  his  swarming  hall, 

Fresh  from  their  feudal  fetters  newly  riven, 

Defying  earth,  and  confident  of  heaven. 

That  morning  he  had  freed  the  soil-bound  slaves 

Who  dig  no  land  for  tyrants  but  their  graves! 

Such  is  their  cry — some  watchword  for  the  fight 

Must  vindicate  the  wrong,  and  warp  the  right: 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what  you  will, 

A  word  's  enough  to  raise  mankind  to  kill; 

Some  factious  phrase  by  cunning  caught  and  spread, 

That  guilt  may  reign,  and  wolves  and  worms  be  fed! 

IX. 

Throughout  that  clime  the  feudal  chiefs  had  gain'd 

Such  sway,  their  infant  monarch  hardly  reigird; 

Now  was  tne  hour  for  faction's  rebel  growth. 

The  serfs  contemn'd  the  one,  and  hated  both: 

They  waited  but  a  leader,  and  they  foimd 

One  to  their  cause  inseparably  bound; 

By  circumstance  compell'd  to  plunge  again. 

In  self-defence,  amidst  the  strife  of  men. 

Cut  off  by  some  mysterious  fate  from  those 

Whom  birth  and  nature  meant  not  for  his  foes, 

Had  Lara  from  that  nighty  to  him  accurst, 

Prepared  to  meet,  but  not  alone,  the  worst: 

Some  reason  urged,  whate'er  it  was,  to  shun 

Inquiry  into  deeds  at  distance  done; 

By  mingling  with  his  own  the  cause  of  all, 

E'en  if  he  fail'd,  he  still  dclay'd  his  fall. 

The  sullen  calm  that  long  his  bosom  kept, 

The  storm  that  once  had  spent  itself  and  slept, 

Roused  by  events  that  seem'd  foredoom'd  to  urge 

His  gloomy  fortunes  to  their  utmost  verge, 

: #♦ 


■ii ■ 

CANTO  II.]  LARA.  61 

Burst  forth,  and  made  him  all  he  once  had  been, 
And  is  again;  he  only  changed  the  scene. 
Light  care  had  he  for  life,  and  less  for  fame, 
But  not  less  fitted  for  the  desperate  game: 
He  deem'd  himself  mark'd  out  for  others'  hate, 
And  mock'd  at  ruin,  so  they  shared  his  fate. 
What  cared  he  for  the  freedom  of  the  crowd? 
He  raised  the  humble  but  to  bend  the  proud. 
He  had  hoped  quiet  in  his  sullen  lair. 
But  man  and  destiny  beset  him  there: 
Inured  to  hunters,  he  was  found  at  bay; 
And  they  must  kUl,  they  cannot  snare  the  prey. 
Stem,  unambitious,  silent  he  had  been 
Henceforth  a  calm  spectator  of  life's  scene; 
But  dragg'd  again  upon  the  arena,  stood 
A  leader  not  unequal  to  the  feud; 
In  voice — mien — ^gesture — savage  nature  spoke. 
And  from  his  eye  the  gladiator  broke. 

X. 

What  boots  the  oft-repeated  tale  of  strife, 

The  feast  of  vultures,  and  the  waste  of  life? 

The  varying  fortune  of  each  separate  field, 

The  fierce  that  vanquish,  and  the  faint  that  yield? 

The  smoking  ruin,  and  the  crumbled  wall? 

In  this  the  struggle  was  the  same  with  all; 

Save  that  distemper'd  passions  lent  their  force 

In  bitterness  that  banish'd  all  remorse. 

None  sued,  for  Mercy  knew  her  cry  was  vain, 

The  captive  died  upon  the  battle-slain: 

In  either  cause,  one  rage  alone  possess'd 

The  empire  of  the  alternate  victor's  breast; 

And  they  that  smote  for  freedom  or  for  sway, 

Deem'd  few  were  slain,  while  more  remain'd  to  slay. 

It  was  too  late  to  check  the  wasting  brand. 

And  Desolation  reap'd  the  famish'd  land; 

The  torch  was  lighted,  and  the  flame  was  spread. 

And  Carnage  smiled  upon  her  daily  bread. 


Fresh  with  the  nerve  the  new-bom  impulse  strung. 
The  first  success  to  Lara's  numbers  clung: 
But  that  vain  victory  hath  ruin'd  all; 
They  form  no  longer  to  their  leader's  call: 
In  blind  confusion  on  the  foe  they  press. 
And  think  to  snatch  is  to  secure  success. 
The  lust  of  booty,  and  the  thirst  of  hate. 
Lure  on  the  broken  brigands  to  their  fate: 
In  vain  he  doth  whate'er  a  chief  may  do. 
To  check  the  headlong  fury  of  that  crew; 
In  vain  their  stubborn  ardor  he  would  tame. 
The  hand  that  kindles  cannot  quench  the  flame; 
The  wary  foe  alone  hath  tum'd  their  mood, 
And  shown  their  rashness  to  that  erring  brood: 
The  f  eign'd  retreat,  the  nightly  ambuscade, 
The  dafly  harass,  and  the  fight  delay'd, 


Jk 


f 


«- 


** 

LARA.  [CAKTO II. 


The  long  j^rivation  of  the  hoped  supply, 

The  tentless  rest  beneath  the  humid  sky, 

The  stubborn  wall  that  mocks  the  leaguer's  art, 

And  palls  the  patience  of  his  baffled  heart, 

Of  these  they  had  not  deem'd:  the  battle-day 

They  could  encounter  as  a  veteran  may; 

But  more  preferr'd  the  fury  of  the  strife, 

And  present  death,  to  hourly  suffering  life. 

And  famine  rings,  and  fever  sweeps  away 

His  numbers  melting  fast  from  their  array; 

Intemperate  triumph  fades  to  discontent, 

And  Lara's  soul  alone  seems  still  unbent: 

But  few  remain  to  aid  his  voice  and  hand. 

And  thousands  dwindled  to  a  scanty  band: 

Desperate,  though  few,  the  last  and  best  remain 'd 

To  mourn  the  discipline  they  late  disdain'd. 

One  hope  survives,  the  frontier  is  not  far. 

And  thence  they  may  escape  from  native  war; 

And  bear  within  them  to  the  neighboring  state 

An  exile's  sorrows,  or  an  outlaw's  hate: 

Hard  is  the  task  their  fatherland  to  quit, 

But  harder  still  to  perish  or  submit. 

XII. 

It  is  resolved— they  march — consenting  Night 
Guides  with  her  star  their  dim  and  torchless  flight: 
Already  they  perceive  its  tranquil  beam 
Sleep  on  the  surface  of  the  barrier  stream; 
Already  they  descry — Is  yon  the  bank? 
Away!  'tis  lined  with  many  a  hostile  rank. 
Return  or  fly! — What  glitters  in  the  rear? 
'Tis  Otho's  banner—the  pursuer's  spear! 
Are  those  the  shepherds' fires  upon  the  height? 
Alas  I  they  blaze  too  widely  for  the  flight: 
Cut  off  from  hope,  and  compass'd  in  the  toil. 
Less  blood,  perchance,  hath  bought  a  richer  spoil  1 


A  moment's  pause — 'tis  but  to  breathe  their  band, 
Or  shall  they  onward  press,  or  here  withstand? 
It  matters  little — if  they  charge  the  foes 
Who  by  their  border-stream  their  march  oppose. 
Some  few,  perchance,  may  break  and  pass  the  line, 
However  link'd  to  baffle  such  design. 
"  The  charge  be  ours!  to  wait  for  their  assault 
W^ere  fate  well  worthy  of  a  coward's  halt." 
Forth  flies  each  sabre,  rein'd  is  every  steed. 
And  the  next  word  shall  scarce  outstrip  the  deed: 
In  the  next  tone  o.f  Lara's  gathering  breath 
How  many  shall  but  hear  the  voice  of  death! 

XIV. 

His  blade  is  bared — in  him  there  Is  an  air 
As  deep,  but  far  too  tranquil  for  despair; 
A  something  of  iiulifTorence  more  than  then 
Becomes  the  bravest,  if  they  feel  for  men. 


^K 


4 


CANTO  II.]  LARA. 

He  tum'd  his  eye  on  Kaled,  ever  near, 

And  still  too  faithful  to  betray  one  fear; 

Perchance  'twas  but  the  moon's  dim  twilight  threw 

Along  his  aspect  an  unwonted  hue 

Of  mournful  paleness,  whose  deep  tint  express'd 

The  truth,  and  not  the  terror  of  his  breast. 

This  Lara  mark'd,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his: 

It  trembled  not  in  such  an  hour  as  this; 

His  lip  was  silent,  scarcely  beat  his  heart, 

His  eye  alone  proclaim' d — 

"We  will  not  parti 
Thy  band  may  perish,  or  thy  friends  may  flee, 
Farewell  to  life,  but  not  adieu  to  thee!" 

The  word  hath  pass'd  his  lips,  and  onward  driven. 
Pours  the  link'd  band  through  ranks  asunder  riven; 
Well  has  each  steed  obey'd  the  armed  heel. 
And  flash  the  scimitars,  and  rings  the  steel; 
Outnumber'd,  not  outbraved,  they  still  oppose 
Despair  to  daring,  and  a  front  to  foes; 
And  blood  is  mingled  with  the  dashing  stream 
Which  runs  all  redly  till  the  morning  beam. 


Commanding,  aiding,  animating  all. 
Where  foe  appear'd  to  press,  or  friend  to  fall. 
Cheers  Lara's  voice,  and  waves  or  strikes  his  steel, 
Inspiring  hope  himself  had  ceased  to  feel. 
None  fled,  for  well  they  knew  that  flight  were  vain. 
But  those  that  waver  turn  to  smite  again. 
While  yet  they  find  the  firmest  of  the  foe 
Recoil  before  their  leader's  look  and  blow; 
Now  girt  with  numbers,  now  almost  alone 
He  foils  their  ranks,  or  reunites  his  own; 
Himself  he  spared  not — Once  they  seem'd  to  fly — 
Now  was  the  time,  he  waved  his  hand  on  high. 
And  shook — Why  sudden  droops  that  plumed  crest? 
The  shaft  is  sped — ^the  arrow  's  in  his  breastl 
That  fatal  gesture  left  the  unguarded  side, 
And  Death  hath  stricken  down  yon  arm  of  pride. 
The  word  of  triumph  fainted  from  his  tongue: 
That  hand,  so  raised,  how  droopingly  it  hungl 
But  yet  the  sword  instinctively  retains, 
Though  from  its  fellow  shrink  the  falling  reins; 
These  Kaled  snatches:  dizzy  with  the  blow, 
And  senseless  bending  o'er  his  saddle-bow 
Perceives  not  Lara  that  his  anxious  page 
Beguiles  his  charger  from  the  combat's  rage; 
Meantime  his  followers  charge  and  charge  again; 
Too  mix'd  the  slayers  now  to  heed  the  slain! 

XVI. 

Day  glimmers  on  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
The  cloven  cuirass,  and  the  helmless  head; 
The  war-horse  masterless  is  on  the  earth, 
And  that  last  gasp  hath  burst  his  bloody  girth; 


T 


■^^ 


64 


LARA. 


[canto  II. 


And  near,  yet  quivering  with  what  life  remain'd, 
The  heel  that  urged  him,  and  the  hand  that  rein'd. 
And  some  too  near  that  rolling  torrent  lie, 
Whose  waters  mock  the  lip  of  those  that  die; 
That  panting  thirst  which  scorches  in  the  breath 
Of  those  that  die  the  soldier's  fiery  death. 
In  vain  impels  the  burning  mouth  to  crave 
One  drop — the  last — to  cool  it  for  the  grave; 
With  feeble  and  convulsive  effort  swept 
Their  limbs  along  the  crimson'd  turf  have  crept: 
The  faint  remains  of  life  such  struggles  waste, 
But  yet  they  reach  the  stream,  and  bend  to  taste: 
They  feel  its  freshness,  and  almost  partake — 
Why  pause? — No  further  thirst  have  they  to  slake — 
It  is  unquench'd,  and  yet  they  feel  it  not — 
It  was  an  agony — but  now  forgot! 

XVII. 

Beneath  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 

Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 

A  breathing  but  devoted  warrior  lay: 

'Twas  Lara  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 

His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 

Kneels  Kaled  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side. 

And  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  that  rush 

With  each  convulsion  in  a  blacker  gush; 

And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 

In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow: 

He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 

And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 

He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 

And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page. 

Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 

Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees; 

Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 

Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 


**■ 


XVIII. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  search'd  the  field, 
Their  triumph  nought  till  Lara  too  should  jield; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 
That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate. 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate: 
And  Otho  comes,  and  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state;  he  answers  not. 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot. 
And  turns  to  Kaled: — each  remaining  word 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung. 
They  spake  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound. 
While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round: 


f 


CANTO  II.]  LARA.  65 

They  seem'd  even  then— that  twain— unto  the  last 
To  half  forget  the  present  in  the  past; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate. 


XIX. 

Their  words  though  faint  were  many — ^from  the  tone 

Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone; 

From  this,  you  might  have  deem'd  young  Kaled's  death 

More  near  than  Lara's  by  his  voice  and  breath, 

So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 

The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke; 

But  Lara's  voice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 

And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely  near: 

But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess, 

So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless, 

Save  that  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 

Upon  that  paffe  his  eye  was  kindly  cast; 

And  once,  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceased, 

Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  East: 

Whether  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 

Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye, 

Or  that  'twas  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene 

That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been. 

Scarce  Kaled  seem'd  to  know,  but  tum'd  away, 

As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day. 

And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light 

To  look  on  Lara's  brow — where  all  grew  night. 

Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss; 

For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross. 

And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead. 

Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need. 

He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane, 

And  smiled — Heaven  pardon!  if  'twere  with  disdain; 

And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 

From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd  despairing  view, 

With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift. 

Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift, 

As  if  such  but  disturb 'd  the  expiring  man. 

Nor  seem'd-to  know  his  life  but  tlien  began. 

The  life  immortal,  infinite,  secure. 

To  all  for  whom  that  cross  hath  made  it  sure! 


XX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew. 

And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew; 

His  limbs  streteh'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd  o'er 

The  weak  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore; 

He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 

It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 

With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain. 

For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 

"  It  beats  !" — Away,  thou  dreamer!  he  is  gone — 

It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 


-t 


66  LARA.  [canto  n. 


He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 

The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay; 

And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 

But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance; 

And  when  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 

Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 

He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 

Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain; 

He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 

The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair. 

But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell. 

Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well 

Than  that  ?ie  lov'd!     Oh!  never  yet  beneath 

The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe  1 

That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  reveal'd 

The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half  conceal'd; 

In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast. 

Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd; 

And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 

What  now  to  her  was  Womanhood  or  Fame? 


And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep. 

But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep; 

Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 

Though  priest  nor  bless' d,  nor  marble  deck'd  the  mound; 

And  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 

Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 

Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past. 

And  vain  e'en  menace — silent  to  the  last; 

She  told  nor  whence  nor  why  she  left  behind 

Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 

Why  did  she  love  him?    Curious  fool! — be  still — 

Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will? 

To  her  he  might  be  gentleness;  the  stern 

Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 

And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 

Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 

They  were  not  common  links  that  form'd  the  chain 

That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain; 

But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold. 

And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 


They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 
They  found  the  scattered  dints  of  many  a  scar 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war: 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  iu  a  land  oi  strife; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt, 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return'd  no  more— that  night  appear'd  his  last. 


-tf- 


4 


CANTO  II.] 


LARA. 


67 


IK 


Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 

A  Serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, 

When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  mom, 

And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn; 

A  Serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  ihe  wood, 

And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  chilcb'en's  food, 

Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 

Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain: 

He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman ^broke 

From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 

Wrapt  round  some  burden  at  his  saddle-bow. 

Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 

Eoused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time. 

And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 

Himself  unheeded  watch 'd  the  stranger's  course, 

Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse. 

And  lifting  thence  the  burden  which  he  bore. 

Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore,* 


*  The  event  in  this  section  was  suggested  by  the  description  of  the 
death,  or  rather  burial,  of  the  Duke  of  Gandia.  The  most  interest- 
ing and  particular  account  of  it  is  given  by  Burchard,  and  is  in  sub- 
stance as  follows:— "On  the  eighth  day  ot  June,  the  Cardinal  of 
Valenzaand  the  Duke  of  Gandia,  sons  of  the  Pope,  supped  with  their 
mother,  Vanozza,  near  the  churcli  of  S.  Pietro  ad  vincula :  several 
other  persons  being  present  at  the  entertainment.  A  late  hour  ap- 
proaching, and  the  cardinal  having  reminded  his  brotlier  that  it  was 
time  to  return  to  the  apostolic  palace,  they  mounted  their  horses  or 
mules,  with  only  a  few  attendants,  and  proceeded  together  as  far  as 
the  palace  of  Cardinal  Ascanio  Sforza,  when  the  duke  informed  the 
cardinal  that,  before  he  returned  home,  he  had  to  pay  a  visit  of 
pleasure.  Dismissing  therefore  all  his  attendants,  excepting  his 
staffiero,  or  footman,  and  a  person  in  a  mask,  who  had  paid  him  a 
visit  while  at  supper,  and  who,  during  the  space  of  a  montli,  or 
thereabouts,  previous  to  thistime,  had  called  upon  him  almost  daily 
at  the  apostolic  palace,  he  took  this  person  behind  him  on  his  mule, 
and  proceeded  to  the  street  of  the  Jews,  where  he  quitted  liis  ser- 
vant, directing  him  to  remain  there  until  a  certain  hour;  when,  if 
he  did  not  return,  he  might  repair  to  the  palace.  The  duke  then 
seated  the  person  in  the  mask  behind  him.  and  rode,  I  know  not 
whither;  but  in  that  night  he  was  assassinated,  and  thrown  into  the 
river.  The  servant,  after  having  been  dismissed,  was  also  assaulted 
and  mortally  wounded;  and  although  he  was  attended  with  great 
care,  yet  such  was  his  situation  that  he  could  give  no  intelligible  ac- 
count of  what  had  befallen  his  master.  In  the  morning,  the  duke 
not  having  returned  to  the  palace,  his  servants  began  to  be  alarmed ; 
and  one  of  them  informed  the  pontiff  of  the  evening  excui*sion  of 
his  sons,  and  that  the  duke  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  This 
gave  the  pope  no  small  anxiety;  but  he  conjectured  that  the  duke 
had  been  attracted  by  some  courtesan  to  pass  the  night  with  her, 
and,  not  choosing  to  quit  the  house  in  open  day,  had  waited  till  the 
following  evening  to  return  home.  When,  however,  the  evening 
arrived,  and  he  found  himself  disappointed  in  his  expectations,  ho 
became  deeply  afflicted,  and  began  to  make  inquiries  from  different 
persons,  whom  he  ordered  to  attend  him  for  that  purpose.  Amongst 
these  was  a  man  named  Giorgio  Schiavoni,  who,  having  discharged 
some  timber  from  a  bark  in  the  river,  had  remained  on  board  the 
vessel  to  watch  it;  and  being  interrogated  whether  he  had  seen  any 
one  thrown  into  the  river  on  the  night  preceding,  he  replied,  that  he 
saw  two  men  on  foot,  who  came  down  the  street,  and  looked  dili- 
gently about,  to  observe  whether  any  person  was  passing.    That 


•II- 


a- 


68  LARA.  [CANTO  ii. 

Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'dto  watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 

And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  llow'd, 

As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd: 

At  once  he  started,  stoop'd,  around  him  strewn 

The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone; 

Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gathered  there, 

And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 

Meantime  the  Serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 

Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean; 

He  caugfft  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 

And  something  glitter' d  starlike  on  the  vest, 

But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 

A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk: 

It  rose  again,  but  indistinct  to  view, 

And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue. 

Then  deeply  disappear'd;  the  horseman  gazed 

Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised; 

Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed. 

And  instant  spurr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 

His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead, 

If  dead  it  were,  escaped  the  observer's  dread: 

But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore. 

Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 

seeing  no  one,  they  returned,  and  a  short  time  aftenvards  two  others 
came,  and  looked  around  in  the  same  manner  as  the  former:  no  per- 
son still  appearing',  they  gave  a  sign  to  their  companions,  when  a 
man  came,  mounted  on  a  white  horse,  having  behind  him  a  dead 
body,  the  head  and  arms  of  which  hung  on  one  side,  and  the  feet  on 
the  other  side  of  the  horse;  the  two  persons  on  foot  supporting  the 
body,  to  prevent  its  falling.  They  thus  proceeded  towards  that  part 
where  the  filth  of  thecity  is  usually  discharged  into  the  river,and  turn- 
ing the  horse,  with  his  tail  towards  the  water,  the  two  persons  took 
the  dead  body  by  the  arms  and  feet,  and  with  all  their  strength  flung 
it  into  the  river.  The  person  on  horseback  then  asked  if  they  had 
thrown  it  in;  to  which  they  replied,  ' Signer,  si '  (Yes,  sir).  He  then 
looked  towards  tlie  river,  and  seeing  a  mantle  floating  on  the  .'stream, 
he  inquired  what  it  was  that  appeared  black;  to  which  they  an- 
swered, it  was  a  mantle;  and  one  of  them  threw  stones  upon  it,  in 
consequence  of  which  it  sunk.  The  attendants  of  the  pontiff  then 
inquired  from  Giorgio  why  he  had  not  revealed  this  to  the  governor 
of  the  city;  to  which  he  replied,  that  he  had  seen  in  his  time  a  hun- 
dred dead  bodies  thrown  into  the  river  at  the  same  place,  "without 
any  inquiry  being  made  respecting  them;  and  that  he  had  not, 
therefore,  considered  it  as  a  matter  of  any  importance.  The  fisher- 
men and  seamen  were  tlien  collected,  and  ordered  to  search  the 
river,  where,  on  the  following  evening,  the}^  found  the  body  of  the 
duke,  with  his  habit  entire,  and  tliirty  ducats  in  his  purse.  lie  was 
pierced  with  nine  wounds,  one  of  which  was  in  liis  throat,  the  others 
}n  his  head,  body,  and  limbs.  No  sooner  was  the  i)ontilT  informed  of 
the  death  of  his  son,  and  that  he  had  been  thrown,  like  filth,  into  the 
river,  tlian,  giving  way  to  bis  grief,  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  chamber, 
and  wept  bitterly.  The  Cardinal  of  Segovia,  and  other  attendants 
on  the  pope,  went  to  the  door,  and  after  many  hours  spent  in  per- 
suasions and  exhortations,  j)revailed  upon  him  to  admit  them.  From 
the  evening  of  Wednesday  till  the  following  Saturday  tlie  pope  took 
no  food;  nor  did  he  sleep  from  Thursday  morning  till  the  same  hour 
on  the  ensuing  day.  At  length,  however,  giving  way  to  the  en- 
treaties of  his  attendants,  lie  began  to  restrain  his  sorrow,  and  to 
consider  the  injury  whieh  liis  own  health  might  8usta,in  by  the  fur- 
ther indulgence  ot  his  grief." — Uoacoe'a  Leo  the  TenViy  vol.  i.  p.  2G5. 


-I 


ih 


CAKTO  II.]  LARA. 

And  such  'tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  mom. 
If  thus  he  perish 'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soull 
His  undiscover'd  hmbs  to  ocean  roll; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

XXV. 

And  Kaled— Lara — Ezzelin,  are  gone, 

Alike  without  their  monumental  stone! 

The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean 

From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had  been; 

Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  too  proud, 

Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud; 

But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 

Where  yet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 

Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 

That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire; 

But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 

She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 

Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  Sorrow  paints. 

And  wooes  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints; 

And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree. 

Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee; 

And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 

His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall; 

And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair, 

And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 

And  fold  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 

As  if  she  stanch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 

Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply; 

Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 

From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit; 

Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 

And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meagre  hand. 

Or  Arace  strange  characters  along  the  sand. — 

This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  she  loved; 

Her  tale  untold— her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


* — : m* 


THE  GIAOUR : 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  TURKISH  TALE. 


'One  fatal  remembrance— one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes— 
To  which  Life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm— and  affliction  no  sting." — Moore. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ., 

AS  A  SLIGHT  BDT  MOST  SIXCERB  TOKEN  OF  ADMIRATION' 

FOR  HIS  GENIUS, 

RESPECT  FOR  HIS  CHARACTER, 

AND  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  rRODtrCTION  IS  INSCRIBED 

BT  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  AFFECTIONATE  SERVANT, 

BYBON. 

London,  May,  1812. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Thk  tale  which  these  disjointed  fragments  present,  is  founded 
upon  circumstances  now  less  common  in  the  East  than  formerly; 
either  because  the  ladies  are  more  circumspect  than  in  the  "olden 
time,"  or  because  the  Christians  have  better  fortune,  or  loss  enter- 
prise. The  story,  when  entire,  contained  the  adventures  of  a  female 
slave,  who  was  thrown,  in  the  Mussulman  manner,  into  the  sea  for 
infidelity,  and  avenged  by  a  young  Venetian,  her  lover,  at  the  time 
the  Seven  Islands  were  possessed  by  the  Republic  of  Venice,  and 
soon  after  the  Arnauts  were  beaten  back  from  the  I\Iorea,  which 
they  had  ravaged  for  some  time  subsequent  to  the  Russian  invasion. 
The  desertion  of  the  Mainotes,  on  being  refused  the  plunder  of 
Misitra,  led  to  the  abandonment  of  that  enterprise,  and  to  the  deso- 
lation of  the  Morea,  during  which  the  cruelty  exercised  on  all  sides 
was  unparalleled  even  In  the  annals  of  the  Faithful. 


■if- 


THE  GIAOUR. 


No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff,* 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain; 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again? 

Fair  clime!  where  every  season  smiles 

Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 

Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height, 

Make  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight. 

And  lend  to  loneliness  delight. 

There  mildly  dimpling,  Ocean's  cheek 

Keflects  the  tints  of  many  a  peak 

Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 

These  Edens  of  the  Eastern  wave: 

And  if  at  times  a  transient  breeze 

Break  the  blue  crystal  of  the  seas. 

Or  sweep  one  blossom  from  the  trees, 

How  welcome  is  each  gentle  air 

That  wakes  and  wafts  the  odors  there! 

For  there— the  Rose  o'er  crag  or  vale, 

Sultana  of  the  Nightingale,f 
The  maid  for  whom  his  melody. 
His  thousand  songs  are  heard  on  high, 

Blooms  blushing  to  her  lover's  tale; 

His  queen,  the  garden  queen,  his  Rose, 

"Unbent  by  winds,  unchill'd  by  snows. 

Far  from  the  winters  of  the  West, 

By  every  breeze  and  season  blest. 

Returns  the  sweets  by  nature  given 

In  softest  incense  back  to  heaven; 

And  grateful  yields  that  smiling  sky 

Her  fairest  hue  and  fragrant  sigh. 

And  many  a  summer  flower  is  there. 

And  many  a  shade  that  love  might  share, 

And  many  a  grotto,  meant  for  rest. 

That  holds  the  pirate  for  a  guest; 

•  A  tomb  above  the  rocks  on  the  promontory,  by  some  supposed 
the  sepulchre  of  Themistocles. 

t  The  attachment  of  the  nightingale  to  the  rose  Is  a  well-known 
Persian  fable.  If  I  mistake  not,  the  "  Bulbul  of  a  thousand  tales" 
is  one  of  his  api>ellatious. 


f 


^K 


^ : 

72  THE  GIAOUR. 

Whose  bark  in  sheltering  cove  below 

Lurks  for  the  passing;  peaceful  prow, 

Till  the  gay  mariner's  guitar* 

Is  heard,  and  seen  the  evening  star; 

Then  stealing  with  the  muflOled  oar, 

Far  shaded  by  the  rocky  shore, 

Rush  the  night-prowlers  on  the  prey. 

And  turn  to  groans  his  roundelay. 

Strange — that  when  Nature  loved  to  trace, 

As  if  lor  gods,  a  dwelling-place, 

And  every  charm  and  grace  hath  mix'd 

Within  the  paradise  she  fix'd. 

There  man,  enamor'd  of  distress, 

Should  mar  it  into  wilderness, 

And  trampled,  brute-like,  o'er  each  flower 

That  tasks  not  one  laborious  hour, 

Nor  claims  the  culture  of  his  hand 

To  bloom  along  the  fairy  land, 

But  springs  as  to  preclude  his  care, 

And  sweetly  wooes  him — but  to  spare: 

Strange — that  where  all  is  peace  beside, 

There  passion  riots  in  her  pride, 

And  lust  and  rapine  wildly  reign 

To  darken  o'er  the  fair  domain. 

It  is  as  though  the  fiends  prevail'd 

Against  the  seraphs  they  assail'd, 

And,  fix'd  on  heavenly  thrones,  should  dwell 

The  freed  inheritors  of  hell; 

So  soft  the  scene,  so  form'd  for  joy, 

So  curst  the  tyrants  that  destroy  1 

He  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled. 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
(Before  Decay's  elfacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers,) 
And  mark'd  the  mild  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose  that 's  there, 
The  fix'd  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek. 
And— but  for  that  sad  shrouded  eye. 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow. 
Where  cold  Obstruction's  apathy+ 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart. 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon; 
Yes,  but  for  these  and  these  alone, 
Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, 
He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power; 

*  The  ^itar  is  the  constant  amusement  of  the  Greek  sailor  by 
night:  with  a  steady  fair  wind,  and  durinj^  a  calm,  it  is  accompanied 
always  by  the  voice,  and  often  by  dancinp:. 

t  "Ay.  but  to  die,  and  po  we  know  not  where. 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction." 

Measure  for  Measure^  Act  ili.  So.  2. 


i 


♦* 


^ 1^ 

THE  GIAOUR.  73 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  seal'd, 

The  first,  last  look  by  death  reveal'd!* 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore; 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair, 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath; 

But  beauty  with  that  fearful  bloom, 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 

The  farewell  beam  of  Feeling  pa,ss'd  away! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth! 
Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave! 

Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 

Was  Freedom's  home,  or  Glory's  grave! 

Shrine  of  the  mighty!  can  it  be 

That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee? 

Approach,  thou  craven  crouching  slave: 
Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae? 

These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 
O  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 

Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this? 

The  gulfj  the  rock  of  Salamis! 

These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 

Arise,  and  make  again  your  own; 

Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 

The  embers  of  their  former  fires; 

And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 

Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear  « 

That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame. 

They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame: 

For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 

Bequeath'd  by  bleeding  Sire  to  Son, 

Though  baffled  oft  is  ever  won. 

Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page 

Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age! 

While  kings  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 

Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 

Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 

Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 

A  mightier  monument  command, 

The  mountains  of  their  native  land! 

There  points  thy  Muse  to  stranger's  eye 

The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die! 
*  I  trust  that  few  of  my  readers  have  ever  had  an  opportunity  of 
witnessing  what  is  here  attempted  in  description;  but  those  who 
have  will  probably  retain  a  painful  remembrance  of  that  singular 
beauty  which  pervades,  with  few  exceptions,  the  features  of  the 
dead,  a  few  hours,  and  but  for  a  few  hours,  after  "the  spirit  is  not 
there."  It  is  to  be  remarked  in  cases  of  violent  death  by  gun-shot 
wounds,  the  expression  is  always  that  of  langour,  whatever  the  natu- 
ral energy  of  the  sufferer's  character;  but  in  death  from  a  stab  the 
countenance  preserves  its  traits  of  feeUng  or  ferocity,  and  the  mind 
its  bias,  to  the  last. 


r 


74  THE  GIAOUR. 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace. 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace; 
Enough— no  foreign  foe  could  quell  ' 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell; 
Yes!  Self-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 

What  can  he  tell  who  treads  thy  shore? 

No  legend  of  thine  olden  time, 
No  theme  on  which  the  Muse  might  soar. 
High  as  thine  own  in  days  of  yore, 

When  man  was  worthy  of  thy  clime. 
The  hearts  within  thy  valleys  bred, 
The  fiery  souls  that  might  have  led 

Thy  sons  to  deeds  sublime. 
Now  crawl  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Slave8--nay,  the  bondsmen  of  a  slave,* 

And  callous,  save  to  crime; 
Stain'd  with  each  evil  that  pollutes 
Mankind,  where  least  above  the  brutes; 
Without  even  savage  virtue  blest, 
Without  one  free  or  valiant  breast. 
Still  to  the  neighboring  ports  they  waft 
Proverbial  wiles  and  anrient  craft; 
In  this  the  subtle  Greek  is  found. 
For  this,  and  this  alone,  renown'd. 
In  vain  might  Liberty  invoke 
The  spirit  to  its  bondage  broke. 
Or  raise  the  neck  that  com-ts  the  yoke: 
No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale, 
And  they  who  listen  may  believe, 
Who  heard  it  first  had  cause  to  ^eve. 

Far,  dark,  along  the  blue  sea  glancing. 
The  shadows  of  the  rocks  advancing 
Start  on  the  fisher's  eye  like  boat 
Of  island  pirate  or  Mainote; 
And  fearful  for  his  light  caique, 
He  shuns  the  near  but  doubtful  creek: 
Though  worn  and  weary  with  his  toil. 
And  curaber'd  with  his  scaly  spoil, 
Slowly,  yet  strongly,  plies  the  oar. 
Till  Port  Leone's  safer  shore 
Receives  him  by  the  lovely  light 
That  best  becomes  an  Eastern  night. 

Who  thundering  comes  on  blackest  steed, 
With  hlacken'd  bit  and  hoof  of  speed! 
Beneath  the  clattering  iron's  sound 
The  cavern 'd  echoes  wake  around 
In  lash  for  lash,  and  bound  for  bound; 

♦Athens  is  the  property  of  the  KIsIar  Apm  (the  slave  of  the  seraglio 
and  guardian  of  tlie  women),  wlio  appoints  the  Waywodo.  A 
pander  and  eimuch— these  are  not  polite,  yet  true  appellations- 
no  w  governs  the  governor  of  Athens. 


f 


THE  GIAOUR.  75 

The  foam  that  streaks  the  courser's  side 
Seems  gather'dfrom  the  ocean-tide: 
Though  weary  waves  are  sunk  to  rest, 
There's  none  within  his  rider's  breast; 
And  though  to-morrow's  tempest  lour, 
'Tis  calmer  than  thy  heart,  young  Giaourl  * 
I  know  thee  not,  I  loathe  thy  race, 
But  in  thy  lineaments  I  trace 
What  time  shall  strengthen,  not  efface: 
Though  young  and  pale,  that  sallow  front 
Is  scathed  by  fiery  passion's  brunt; 
Though  bent  on  earth  thine  evil  eye, 
As  meteor-like  thou  glidest  by, 
Right  well  I  view  and  deem  thee  one 
Whom  Othman's  sons  should  slay  or  shun. 

On — on  he  hasten'd,  and  he  drew 
My  gaze  of  wonder  as  he  flew: 
Though  like  a  demon  of  the  night 
He  pass'd,  and  vanish'd  from  my  sight, 
His  aspect  and  his  air  impress'd 
A  troubled  memory  on  my  breast, 
And  long  upon  my  startled  ear 
Rung  his  dark  courser's  hoofs  of  fear. 
He  spurs  his  steed;  he  nears  the  steep, 
That,  jutting,  shadows  o'er  the  deep; 
He  winds  around;  he  hurries  by; 
The  rock  relieves  him  from  mine  eye; 
For  well  I  ween  unwelcome  he 
Whose  glance  is  fix'd  on  those  that  flee; 
And  not  a  star  but  shines  too  bright 
On  him  who  takes  such  timeless  flight. 
He  wound  along;  but  ere  he  pass'd 
One  glance  he  snatch'd,  as  if  his  last, 
A  moment  check'd  his  wheeling  steed, 
A  moment  breathed  him  fiom  his  speed, 
A  moment  on  his  stirrup  stood — 
W^hy  looks  he  o'er  the  olive  wood? 
The  crescent  glimmers  on  the  hill. 
The  Mosque's  high  lamps  are  quivering  stiU: 
Though  too  remote  for  sound  to  wake 
In  echoes  of  the  far  tophaike,t 
The  flashes  of  each  joyous  peal 
Are  seen  to  prove  the  Moslem's  zeal. 
To-night,  set  Rhamazani's  sun; 
To-night,  the  Bairam  feast  's  begun; 
To-night — but  who  and  what  art  thou 
Of  foreign  garb  and  fearful  brow? 
And  what  are  these  to  thine  or  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  either  pause  or  flee? 

He  stood — some  dread  was  on  his  face. 
Soon  Hatred  settled  in  its  place: 

*  Infidel. 

t  "Tophaike."  musket,  Tlie  Bairam  is  announced  by  the  cannon 
at  sunset ;  i  he  illumination  ot  the  mosques,  and  the  firing  of  all  kinds 
of  small  arms,  loaded  with  ball,  proclaim  it  during  the  night. 


ii- 


76  THE  GIAOUR. 

It  rose  not  with  the  reddening  flush 

Of  transient  Anger's  hasty  blush, 

But  pale  as  marble  o'er  the  tomb 

Whose  ghastly  whiteness  aids  its  gloomu 

His  brow  was  bent,  his  eye  was  glazed; 

He  raised  his  arm,  and  fiercely  raised 

And  sternly  shook  his  hand  on  high, 

As  doubting  to  return  or  fly: 

Impatient  of  his  flight  delay'd, 

Here  loud  his  raven  charger  neigh'd — 

Down  glanced  that  hand,  and  grasp'd  his  blade; 

That  sound  had  burst  his  waking  dream, 

As  Slumber  starts  at  owlet's  scream. 

The  spur  hath  lanced  his  courser's  sides; 

Away,  away,  for  life  he  rides; 

Swift  as  the  hurl'd  on  high  jerreed  * 

Springs  to  the  touch  his  startled  steed; 

The  rock  is  doubled,  and  the  shore 

Shakes  with  the  clattering  tramp  no  more; 

The  crag  is  won,  no  more  is  seen 

His  Christian  crest  and  haughty  mien. 

'Twas  but  an  instant  he  restrain'd 

That  fiery  barb  so  sternly  rein'd; 

'Twas  but  a  moment  that  he  stood, 

Then  sped  as  if  by  death  pursued: 

But  in  that  instant  o'er  his  soul 

Winters  of  Memory  seem'd  to  roll, 

And  gather  in  that  drop  of  time 

A  life  of  pain,  an  age  of  crime. 

O'er  him  who  loves,  or  hates,  or  fears, 

Such  moment  pours  the  grief  of  years: 

What  felt  he  then,  at  once  opprest 

By  all  that  most  distracts  the  breast? 

That  pause,  which  ponder'd  o'er  his  fate, 

Oh,  who  its  dreary  length  shall  date! 

Though  in  Time's  record  nearly  nought, 

It  was  Eternity  to  Thought  1 

For  infinite  as  boundless  space 

The  thought  that  Conscience  must  embrace, 

Which  in  itself  can  comprehend 

Woe  without  name,  or  hope,  or  end. 


The  hour  is  past,  the  Giaour  is  gone; 
And  did  he  flv  or  fall  alone? 
Woe  to  that  hour  he  came  or  wcntl 
The  curse  for  Hassan's  sin  was  sent 
To  turn  a  palace  to  a  tomb: 
He  came,  ne  went,  like  the  Simoom,  t 
That  harbinger  of  fate  and  gloom, 

•Jerreed.  or  Djerrid,  a  blimted  Turkish  javelin,  which  is  darted 
from  horseback  with  great  force  and  precision.  It  is  a  favorite  ex- 
ercise of  the  Musshimaiis;  but  I  know  not  if  it  can  be  called  a  manly 
one,  since  the  most  expert  in  tlie  art  are  the  black  eunuchs  of  Con- 
stantinonle.  I  think,  next  to  these,  a  Mamlouk  at  Smyrna  was  the 
most  skilful  that  came  within  my  observation. 

t  The  blast  of  the  desert,  fatal  to  everything  living,  and  often  al- 
luded to  in  Eastern  poetry. 


^^ 


. _^ 

tHE  GIAOUR.  77 

Beneath  whose  widely-wasting  breath 
The  very  cypress  droops  to  death — 
Dark  tree,  still  sad  when  other's  grief  is  fled, 
The  only  constant  mourner  o'er  the  deadl 

The  steed  is  vanish'd  from  the  stall; 
No  serf  is  seen  in  Hassan's  hall; 
The  lonely  Spider's  thin  gray  pall 
Waves  slowly  widening  o'er  the  wall; 
The  Bat  builds  in  his  Harem  bower, 
And  in  the  fortress  of  his  power 
The  Owl  usurps  the  beacon-tower; 
The  wild-dog  howls  o'er  the  fountain's  brim, 
With  baffled  thirst,  and  famine,  grim; 
For  the  stream  has  shmnk  from  its  marble  bed, 
Where  the  weeds  and  the  desolate  dust  are  spread. 
'Twas  sweet  of  yore  to  see  it  play 
And  chase  the  sultriness  of  day, 
As  springing  high  the  silver  dew 
In  whirls  fantastically  flew. 
And  flung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  verdure  o'er  the  ground. 
'Twas  sweet,  when  cloudless  stars  were  bright, 
To  view  the  wave  of  watery  light, 
And  hear  its  melody  by  night. 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Childhood  play'd 
Around  the  verge  of  that  cascade; 
And  oft  upon  his  mother's  breast 
That  sound  had  harmonized  his  rest; 
And  oft  had  Hassan's  Youth  along 
Its  bank  been  soothed  by  Beauty's  song; 
And  softer  seem'd  each  melting  tone 
Of  Music  mingled  with  its  own. 
But  ne'er  shall  Hassan's  Age  repose 
Along  the  brink  at  Twilight's  close: 
The  stream  that  fill'd  that  font  is  fled — 
The  blood  that  warm'd  his  heart  is  shedl 
And  here  no  more  shall  human  voice 
Be  heard  to  rage,  regret,  rejoice. 
The  last  sad  note  that  swell'd  the  gale 
Was  woman's  wildest  funeral  wail: 
That  quench'd  in  silence,  all  is  still, 
But  the  lattice  that  flaps  when  the  wind  is  shrill; 
Though  raves  the  gust,  and  floods  the  rain, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again. 
On  desert  sands  'twere  joy  to  scan 
The  rudest  steps  of  fellow-man, 
So  here  the  very  voice  of  Grief 
Might  wake  an  Echo  like  relief — 
At  least  'twould  say,  "  All  are  not  gone; 
There  lingers  Life,  though  but  in  one  "— 
For  many  a  gilded  chamber's  there. 
Which  Solitude  might  well  forbear; 
Within  that  dome  as  yet  Decay 
Hath  slowly  work'd  her  cankering  way — 
But  gloom  is  gather'd  o'er  the  gate, 
Nor  there  the  Fakir's  self  will  wait: 
Nor  there  will  wandering  Dervise  stay, 

♦« -«. 


-4 


78  THE  GIAOUR. 

For  bounty  cheers  not  his  delay; 

Nor  there  will  weary  stranger  halt 

To  bless  the  sacred  "  bread  and  salt."  * 

Alike  must  Wealth  and  Poverty 

Pass  heedless  and  unheeded  by, 

For  Courtesy  and  Pity  died 

"With  Hassan  on  the  mountain  side. 

His  roof,  that  refuge  unto  men, 

Is  Desolation's  hungry  den. 
The  guest  flies  the  hall,  and  the  vassal  from  labor. 
Since  his  turban  was  cleft  by  the  Infidel's  sabrel  t 

I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  feet. 
But  not  a  voice  mine  ear  to  greet; 
More  near — each  turban  I  can  scan, 
And  silver-sheathed  ataghan;  X 
The  foremost  of  the  band  is  seen 
An  Emir  by  his  garb  of  green:  § 
"  Ho!  who  art  thou?"—"  This  low  salam  | 
Replies  of  Moslem  faith  I  am." 
"  The  burden  ye  so  gently  bear 
Seems  one  that  claims  your  utmost  care. 
And,  doubtless,  holds  some  precious  freight. 
My  humble  bark  would  gladly  wait." 

"Thou  speakest  sooth;  thy  skiff  unmoor. 
And  waft  us  from  the  silent  shore; 
Nay,  leave  the  sail  still  furl'd,  and  ply 
The  nearest  oar  that's  scatter'd  by, 
And  midway  to  those  rocks  where  sleep 
The  channel'd  waters  dark  and  deep. 
Rest  from  your  task — so — bravely  done. 
Our  course  has  been  right  swiftly  run; 
Yet  'tis  the  longest  voyage,  I  trow 
That  one  of — " 

Sullen  it  plunged,  and  slowlv  sank. 
The  calm  wave  rippled  to  the  Dank; 
I  watch'd  it  as  it  sank:  methought 
Some  motion  from  the  current  caught 

*  To  partake  of  food,  to  break  bread  and  salt  with  your  host,  in- 
sures the  safety  of  the  pruest:  even  though  an  enemy,  his  person 
from  that  moment  is  sacred. 

1 1  need  hardly  observe,  that  Charity  and  Hospitality  are  the  first 
duties  enjoined  by  Mohammed,  and,  to  say  truth,  very  generally 
practised  by  his  disciples.  The  first  praiso  that  can  be  bestowed  on 
a  chief,  is  a  panegyric  on  his  bounty ;  tlie  next,  on  his  valor. 

t  The  ataghan.  iv  long  dagger  worn  with  pistols  in  the  belt,  in  a 
metal  scabbard,  generally  of  silver;  and,  among  the  wealthier,  gilt, 
or  of  gold. 

§  f^reen  is  the  privileged  color  of  the  Prophet's  numerous  pre- 
tended descendants;  witli  them,  as  here,  faitn  (the  family  inheri- 
tant.-e)  is  supposed  to  supersede  the  necessity  of  good  works:  they 
are  the  worst  of  a  very  indifferent  brood. 

Ij  "Salam  aleikounil  aleikoum  salam:"— "Peace  be  with  you;  be 
with  you  peace,"— the  salutation  reserved  for  the  Faithful:— to  a 
Christian,  "Urlarula!"— " A  good  journey;"  or.  "Saban  hiresem, 
sahan  sei-ula"— "Good  morn,  good  even;"  and  sometimes,  "May 
your  end  be  happy,"— are  the  usual  salutes. 


^1- 


THE  GIAOUR.  79 

Bestirr'd  it  more, — 'twas  but  the  beam 

That  chequer'd  o'er  the  living  stream: 

I  gazed,  till  vanishing  from  view, 

Like  lessening  pebble  it  withdrew. 

Still  less  and  less,  a  speck  of  white 

That  gemm'd  the  tide,  then  mock'd  the  sight; 

And  all  its  hidden  secrets  sleep, 

Known  but  to  Genii  of  the  deep, 

Which,  trembling  in  their  coral  caves, 

They  dare  not  whisper  to  the  waves. 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen  of  Eastern  spring,* 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Cashmere 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour, 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye: 
So  Beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray'd, 
Woe  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid; 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice: 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught, 
For  every  touch  that  woo'd  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away. 
Till  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
'Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah!  where  shall  either  victim  rest? 
Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  ? 
Or  Beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower? 
No:  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
Ne'er  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die, 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own. 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

The  Mind,  that  broods  o'er  guilty  woes, 

Is  like  the  Scorpion  ^irt  by  fire. 
In  circle  narrowing  as  it  glows. 
The  flames  around  their  captive  close. 
Till  inly  searched  by  thousand  throes. 

And  maddening  in  her  ire. 
One  sad  and  sole  relief  she  knows, 
The  sting  she  nourish'd  for  her  foes, 

*  The  blue-winged  butterfly  of  Cashmere,  the  most  rare  and  beauti- 
ful of  the  species. 


-#— W' 

m  THE  GIAOUR. 

Whose  venom  never  yet  was  vain, 
Gives  but  one  pang,  and  cures  all  pain. 
And  darts  into  her  desperate  brain: 
So  do  the  dark  in  soul  expire. 
Or  live  like  Scorpion  cirt  Dy  fire;* 
So  writhes  the  mind  Kemorse  hath  riven, 
Unfit  for  earth,  uudoom'd  for  heaven, 
Darkness  above,  despair  beneath, 
Around  it  Hame,  within  it  death! 

Black  Hassan  from  the  Harem  flies, 
Nor  bends  on  woman's  form  his  eyes; 
The  unwonted  chase  each  hour  employs. 
Yet  shares  he  not  the  hunter's  joys. 
Not  thus  was  Hassan  wont  to  fly 
When  Leila  dwelt  in  his  Serai. 
Doth  Leila  there  no  longer  dwell? 
That  tale  can  only  Hassan  tell: 
Strange  rumors  in  our  city  say 
Upon  that  eve  she  fled  away 
When  Rhamazan's  last  sun  was  6et,t 
And  flashing  from  each  minaret 
Millions  of  lamps  proclaim'd  the  feast 
Of  Bairam  through  the  boundless  East. 
'Twas  then  she  went  as  to  the  bath, 
Which  Hassan  vainly  search'd  in  wrath: 
For  she  was  flown  her  master's  rage 
In  likeness  of  a  Georgian  page, 
And  far  beyond  the  Moslem's  power 
Had  ^vrong'd  him  with  the  faithless  Giaour, 
Somewhat  of  this  had  Hassan  deem'd: 
But  still  so  fond,  so  fair  she  seem'd. 
Too  well  he  trusted  to  the  slave 
Whose  treachery  deserved  a  grave: 
And  on  that  eve  had  gone  to  mosque, 
And  thence  to  feast  in  his  kiosk. 
Such  is  the  tale  his  Nubians  tell, 
Who  did  not  watch  their  charge  too  well; 
But  others  say,  that  on  that  night, 
By  pale  Phingari's  trembling  light,J 
The  Giaour  upon  his  jet-black  steed 
Was  seen,  but  seen  alone,  to  speed 
With  bloody  spur  along  the  shore, 
Nor  maid  nor  page  behind  him  bore. 

Her  eye's  dark  charm  'twere  vain  to  teD, 
But  gaze  on  that  of  the  Gazelle, 
It  will  assist  thy  fancy  well: 

♦Alhidinp  to  the  dubious  suicide  of  the  scorpion,  so  placed  for 
experiment  by  gentle  philosophers.  Some  maintain  that  the  posi- 
tion of  the  stinp,  when  turned  toward'^*  the  head,  is  merely  a  convul- 
give  movement;  but  others  have  actually  brought  in  the  verdict, 
"Felo  de  se."  Tiie  scoi'pions  are  surely  interested  in  a  speedy 
decision  of  the  question;  as,  if  once  fairly  established  as  insect 
Catos,  they  will  probably  be  allowed  to  liveaK  long  as  they  think 
proper,  without  being  martyred  for  the  sake  of  an  hypothesis. 

tThe  cannon  at  sunset  close  the  Rhamazan.  See  page  75,  note  t. 

t  The  moon. 


* 


THE  GIAOUR.  81 

As  large,  as  languishingly  dark, 

But  Soul  beam'd  forth  in  every  spark 

That  darted  from  beneath  the  lid, 

Bright  as  the  jewel  of  Giamsehid.* 

Yea,  Soul,  and  should  our  Prophet  say 

That  form  was  nought  but  breathing  clay, 

By  Allah!  I  would  answer  nay; 

Though  on  Al-Sirat's  arch  I  stood,t 

Which  totters  o'er  the  fiery  flood, 

With  Paradise  within  my  view. 

And  all  his  Houris  beckoning  through. 

Oh  I  who  young  Leila's  glance  could  read 

And  keep  that  portion  of  his  creed, 

Which  saith  that  woman  is  but  dust, 

A  soulless  toy  for  tyrant's  lu6t?| 

On  her  might  Muftis  gaze,  and  own 

That  through  her  eye  the  Immortal  shone; 

On  her  fair  cheek's  unfading  hue 

The  young  pomegranate's  blossoms  strewg 

Their  bloom  in  blushes  ever  new: 

Her  hair  in  hyaeinthine  flow,| 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below. 

As  'midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 

She  stood  superior  to  them  all. 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 

Gleam'd  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 

It  fell,  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth. 

The  cygnet  nobly  walks  the  water: 

So  moved  on  earth  Circassia's  daughter, 

The  loveliest  bird  of  Franguestanli 

As  rears  her  crest  the  ruffled  Swan, 
And  spurns  the  wave  with  wings  of  pride, 

When  pass  the  steps  of  stranger  man 
Along  the  banks  that  bound  her  tide; 
*  The  celebrated  fabulous  ruby  of  Sultan  Giamsehid,  the  embel- 
lisherof  Istakhar;  from  its  splendor,  named  Schebgerag.  "The  Torch 
of  Night;"  also,  "The  Cup  of  the  Sun."&c.  In  the  first  edition, 
"Giamsehid  "  was  written  as  a  word  of  three  syllables;  so  D'Herbe- 
lothasit;  but  I  am  told  Richardson  reduces  it  to  a  dissyllable,  and 
writes  "  Jamschid."  I  have  left  in  the  text  the  orthography  of  the 
one  with  the  pronunciation  of  the  other. 

t  Al-Sirat,  the  bridge  of  breadth  less  than  the  thre«id  of  a  famished 
spider,  over  which  the  Mussulmans  must  skate  into  Paradise,  to 
which  it  is  the  only  entrance;  but  this  is  not  the  woi-st,  the  river  be- 
neath being  hell  itself,  into  which,  as  may  be  expected,  the  unskil- 
ful and  tender  of  foot  contrive  to  tumble  with  a  "facilis  descensus 
Averni, "  not  very  pleasing  in  p  rospect  to  the  next  passenger.  There 
is  a  shorter  cut  downwards  to  the  Jews  and  Christians. 

X  A  vulgar  error:  the  Koran  allots  at  least  a  third  of  Paradise  to 
well-behaved  women ;  but  by  far  the  greater  number  of  Mussulmans 
interpret  the  text  their  own  way,  and  exclude  their  moieties  from 
heaven.  Being  enemies  to  Platonics,  they  cannot  discern  "  any  fit- 
ness of  things  "in  the  souls  of  the  other  sex,  conceiving  them  to  be 
superseded  by  the  Houris. 

§  An  Oriental  simile, which  may,  perhaps,  though  fairly  stolen,  be 
deemed  "plus  Arabe  qu'eu  Arabie. 

i  Hyaeinthine,  in  Arabic  "Sunbul;"  as  common  a  thought  in  the 
Eastern  poets  as  it  was  among  the  Greeks. 
t  Circassia. 


— ^ 

8a  THE  GIAOUR. 

Thus  rose  fair  Leila's  whiter  neck: — 
Thus  arm'd  with  beauty  would  she  check 
Intrusion's  glance,  till  Folly's  gaze 
Shrunk  from  the  charms  it  meant  to  praise: 
Thus  high  and  graceful  was  her  gait; 
Her  heart  as  tender  to  her  mate; 
Her  mate — stern  Hassan,  who  was  he? 
Alas!  that  name  was  not  for  thee! 

Stem  Hassan  hath  a  journey  ta'en 
With  twenty  vassals  in  his  train, 
Each  arm'd,  as  best  becomes  a  man, 
With  arquebuse  and  ataghan; 
The  chief  before,  as  deckd  for  war, 
Bears  in  his  belt  the  scimitar 
Stain'd  with  the  best  of  Amaut  blood, 
When  in  the  pass  the  rebels  stood, 
And  few  retum'd  to  tell  the  tale 
Of  what  befell  in  Fame's  vale. 
The  pistols  which  his  girdle  bore 
Were  those  that  once  a  pacha  wore, 
Which  still,  though  gemm'd  and  boss'd  with  gold, 
Even  robbers  tremble  to  behold. 
'Tis  said  he  goes  to  woo  a  bride 
More  true  than  her  who  left  his  side; 
The  faithless  slave  that  broke  her  bower, 
And  worse  than  faithless,  for  a  Giaour! 

The  sun's  last  rays  are  on  the  hill, 
And  sparkle  in  the* fountain  rill, 
Wliose  welcome  waters,  cool  and  clear, 
Draw  blessings  from  the  mountaineer; 
Here  may  the  loitering  merchant  Greek 
Find  that  repose  'twere  vain  to  seek 
In  cities  lodged  too  near  his  lord. 
And  trembliug  for  his  secret  hoard — 
Here  may  he  rest  where  none  can  see, 
In  crowds  a  slave,  in  deserts  free; 
And  with  forbidden  wine  may  stain 
The  bowl  a  Moslem  must  not  drain. 

The  foremost  Tartar  's  in  the  gap, 
Conspicuous  by  his  yellow  cap; 
The  rest  in  lengthening  line  the  while 
Wind  slowly  through  tlie  long  defile; 
Above,  the  mountain  rears  a  peak, 
Where  vultures  whet  the  thirsty  beak; 
And  theirs  may  be  a  feast  to-night, 
Shall  tempt  them  down  ere  morrow's  light; 
Beneath,  a  river's  wintrj'  stream 
Has  shrunk  before  the  summer  beam, 
And  left  a  channel  bleak  and  bare. 
Save  shrubs  that  spring  to  perish  there: 
Each  side  the  midway  path  there  lay 
Small  broken  crags  of  granite  gray, 
By  time,  or  mountain  lightning,  riven 
From  summits  clad  in  uiists  of  heaves; 


*ii^ 


THE  GIAOUR. 

For  where  is  he  that  hath  beheld 
The  peak  of  Liakura  unveil'd? 


They  reach  the  grove  of  pine  at  last: 
"  Bismillah!  now  the  peril 's  past;* 
For  yonder  view  the  opening  plain, 
And  there  we'll  prick  our  steeds  amain:'* 
The  Chiaus  spake,  and  as  he  said, 
A  bullet  whistled  o'er  his  head; 
The  foremost  Tartar  bites  the  ground! 

Scarce  had  they  time  to  check  the  rein, 
Swift  from  their  steeds  the  riders  bound; 

But  three  shall  never  mount  again: 
Unseen  the  foes  that  gave  the  wound, 

The  dying  ask  revenge  in  vain. 
With  steel  unsheath'd,  and  carbine  bent, 
Some  o'er  their  courser's  harness  leant, 

Half  shelter'd  by  the  steed; 
Some  fly  behind  the  nearest  rock. 
And  there  await  the  coming  shock, 

Nor  tamely  stand  to  bleed 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  foes  unseen. 
Who  dare  not  quit  their  craggy  screen. 
Stern  Hassan  only  from  his  horse 
Disdains  to  light,  and  keeps  his  course, 
Till  fiery  flashes  in  the  van 
Proclaim  too  sure  the  robber-clan 
Have  well  secured  the  only  way 
Could  now  avail  the  promised  prey; 
Then  curl'd  his  very  beard  with  ire,t 
And  glared  his  eye  with  fiercer  fire: 
"  Though  far  and  near  the  bullets  hiss, 
I've  'scaped  a  bloodier  hour  than  this.'* 
And  now  the  foe  their  covert  quit. 
And  call  his  vassals  to  submit: 
But  Hassan's  frown  and  furious  word 
Are  dreaded  more  than  hostile  sword, 
Nor  of  his  little  band  a  man 
Resign'd  carbine  or  ataghan, 
Nor  raised  the  craven  cry,  AmaunlJ 
In  fuller  sight,  more  near  and  near, 
The  lately  ambush'd  foes  appear, 
And,  issuing  from  the  grove,  advance 
Some  who  on  battle-charger  prance. 
Who  leads  them  on  with  loreign  brand. 
Far  dashing  in  his  red  right  hand?  «• 

*  Bismillah—"  In  the  name  of  God;"  the  commencement  of  all 
the  chapters  of  the  Koran  but  one,  and  of  prayers  and  thanksgiv- 
ings. 

t  A  phenomenon  not  uncommon  with  an  angry  Mussulman.  In 
180f),  the  Capitan  Pacha's  whiskers  at  a  diplomatic  audience  were 
no  less  lively  with  indignation  than  a  tiger-cat's,  to  the  horror  of  all 
the  dragomans;  the  portentous  mustachios  twisted,  they  stood 
erect  of  their  own  accord,  and  were  expected  every  moment  to 
change  their  color,  but  at  last  condescended  to  subside,  which 
probably  saved  more  heads  than  they  contained  hairs. 

t  "  Amaun,"  quarter,  pardon. 


*it 


■SK 


4 


81  THE  GIAOUR. 

"  'Tis  he!  'tis  he!  I  know  him  now; 
I  know  hira  by  his  pallid  brow; 
I  know  hira  by  the  evil  eye* 
That  aids  his  envious  treachery; 
I  know  him  by  his  jet-black  barb: 
Though  now  array 'd  in  Amaut  garb, 
Apostate  from  his  own  vile  faith, 
It  shall  not  save  him  from  the  death: 
'Tis  he!  well  met  in  any  hour, 
Lost  Leila's  love,  accursed  Giaour!'* 

As  rolls  the  river  into  ocean, 
In  sable  toiTent  wildly  streaming; 

As  the  sea-tide's  opposing  motion. 
In  azure  column  proudly  gleaming. 
Beats  back  the  current  many  a  rood. 
In  curling  foam  and  mingling  flood, 
While  eddying  whirl,  and  breaking  wave. 
Roused  by  the  blast  of  winter,  rave; 
Through  sparkling  spray,  in  thundering  clasb, 
The  lightnings  of  the  waters  flash 
In  awful  whiteness  o'er  the  shore, 
That  shines  and  shakes  beneath  the  roar; 
Thus — as  the  stream  and  ocean  greet, 
With  waves  that  madden  as  they  meet — 
Thus  join  the  bands,  whom  mutual  wrong. 
And  fate,  and  fury,  drive  along. 
The  bickering  sabres'  shivering  Jar; 

And  pealing  wide  or  ringing  near 

Its  echoes  on  the  throbbing  ear 
The  death-shot  hissing  from  afar; 
The  shock,  the  shout,  the  groan  of  war. 

Reverberate  along  that  vale, 

More  suited  to  the  shepherd's  tale: 
Though  few  the  numbers — theirs  the  strife, 
That  neither  spares  nor  speaks  for  life! 
Ah!  fondly  youthful  hearts  can  press. 
To  seize  and  share  the  dear  caress; 
But  Love  itself  could  never  pant 
For  all  that  Beauty  sighs  to  grant. 
With  half  the  fervor  Hate  bestows 
Upon  the  last  embrace  of  foes, 
When  grappling  in  the  fight  they  fold 
Those  arms  that  ne'er  shall  lose  their  hold: 
Friends  meet  to  part;  Love  laughs  at  faith; 
True  foes,  once  met,  are  join'd  till  death! 

"VTith  sabre  shiver'd  to  the  hilt. 

Yet  dripping  with  the  blood  he  spilt; 

Yet  strain'd  within  the  sever'd  hand 

Which  quivers  round  that  faithless  brand; 

His  turban  far  behind  him  roll'd, 

And  cleft  in  twain  its  firmest  fold; 

His  flowing  robe  by  falchion  torn, 

And  crimson  as  those  clouds  of  mom 
♦The  "evil  eye,"  a  common  superstition  in  the  Levant,  and  of 
which  the  imaginary  effects  are  yet  very  singular  on  those  who 
conceive  themselves  affected. 


-t 


^K 


^f- 


if- 


THE  GIAOUR  85 

That,  streak' d  with  dusky  red,  portend 

The  day  shall  have  a  stormy  end; 

A  stain  on  every  bush  that  hore 

A  fragment  of  his  palampore,* 

His  breast  with  wounds  unnumber'd  riven, 

His  back  to  earth,  his  face  to  heaven, 

Fall'n  Hassan  lies — his  unclosed  eye 

Yet  louring  on  his  enemy. 

As  if  the  hour  that  seaPd  his  fate 

Surviving  left  his  quenchless  hate; 

And  o'er  him  bends  that  foe,  with  brow 

As  dark  as  his  that  bled  below. 

"Yes,  Leila  sleeps  beneath  the  wave, 
But  his  shall  be  a  redder  grave; 
Her  spirit  pointed  well  the  steel 
Which  taught  that  felon  heart  to  feel. 
He  call'd  the  Prophet,  but  his  power 
Was  vain  against  the  vengeful  Giaour: 
He.  call'd  on  Allah — but  the  word 
Arose  unheeded  or  unheard. 
Thou  Paynim  fool!  could  Leila's  prayer 
Be  pass'd,  and  thine  accorded  there? 
I  watch'd  my  time,  I  leagued  with  these, 
The  traitor  in  his  turn  to  seize; 
My  wrath  is  wreak' d,  the  deed  is  done. 
And  now  I  go — ^but  go  alone." 


The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling: 
His  Mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high — 

She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 
The  pasture  green  beneath  her  eye, 

She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling: 
"  'Tis  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh." 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden-bower, 
JBut  gazed  through  the  ^rate  of  his  steepest  tower: 
"  Why  comes  he  not?  his  steeds  are  fleet. 
Nor  shrink  they  from  the  summer  heat; 
Why  sends  not  the  Bridegroom  his  promised  gift? 
Is  his  heart  more  cold,  or' his  barb  less  swift? 
Oh,  false  reproach!     Yon  Tartar  now 
Has  gain'd  our  nearest  mountain's  brow, 
And  warily  the  steep  descends, 
And  now  within  the  valley  bends; 
And  he  bears  the  gift  at  his  saddle-bow — 
How  could  I  deem  his  courser  slow? 
Right  well  my  largess  shall  repay 
His  welcome  speed,  and  weary  way." 

The  Tartar  lighted  at  the  gate. 
But  scarce  upheld  his  fainting  weight; 
His  swarthy  visage  spake  distress. 
But  this  might  be  from  weariness; 
His  garb  \Yith  sanguine  spots  was  dyed. 
But  these  might  be  from  his  courser's  side; 

*  The  flowered  shawls  generally  worn  by  persons  of  rank. 


it 


4 


86  THE  giaour! 

He  drew  the  token  from  his  vest — 
Angel  of  death!  'tis  Hassan's  cloven  crest  I 
His  calpac  *  rent — his  caftan  red — 
"  Lady,  a  fearful  bride  thy  Son  hath  wed: 
Me,  not  from  mercy,  did  they  spare, 
But  this  empurpled  pledge  to  bear. 
Peace  to  the  brave!  whose  blood  is  spilt: 
Woe  to  the  Giaour!  for  his  the  guilt." 

A  turban  carved  in  coarsest  8tone,t 
A  pillar  with  rank  weeds  o'ergrown, 
Whereon  can  now  be  scarcely  read 
The  Koran  verse  that  mourns  the  dead, 
Point  out  the  spot  where  Hassan  fell 
A  victim  in  that  lonely  dell. 
There  sleeps  as  true  an  Osmanlie 
As  e'er  at  Mecca  bent  the  knee ; 
As  ever  scorp'd  forbidden  wine, 
Or  jjray'd  with  face  towards  the  shrine, 
In  orisons  resumed  anew 
At  solemn  sound  of  "Allah  Hu!"t 
Yet  died  he  by  a  stranger's  hand, 
And  stranger  in  his  native  land; 
Yet  died  he  as  in  arms  he  stood, 
And  unavenged,  at  1  east  in  blood. 
But  him  the  maids  of  Paradise 

Impatient  to  their  halls  invite, 
And  the  dark  Heaven  of  Houris'  eyes 

On  him  shall  glance  forever  bright; 
They  come— their  kerchiefs  green  they  wave,§ 
And  welcome  with  a  kiss  the  brave! 
Who  falls  in  battle  'gainst  a  Giaour 
Is  worthiest  an  immortal  bower. 

But  thou,  false  Infidel!  shalt  writhe 
Beneath  avenging  Monkir's  scythe;  | 

*  The  ealpac  is  the  solid  or  centre  part  of  the  head-dress ;  the  shawl 
is  wound  round  it,  and  forms  the  turban. 

t  The  turban,  pillar,  and  inscriptive  verse,  decorate  the  tombs  of 
the  Osmanlies,  whether  in  the  cemetery  or  the  wilderness.  In  the 
mountains  you  frequently  pass  similar  mementos;  and  on  inquiry 
you  are  informed  that  they  record  some  victim  of  rebellion,  plun- 
der, or  revenge. 

t  "Allah  Hu!"  the  conclndingwordsof  the  Muezzin's  call  to  prayer 
from  the  highest  gallery  on  the  exterior  of  the  minaret.  On  a  still 
evening,  when  the  Muezzin  has  a  fine  voice,  which  is  frequently  the 
case,  the  effect  is  solemn  and  beautiful  beyond  all  the  beUs  in 
Christendom. 

§  The  following  is  part  of  a  battle-song  of  the  Turks:— "I  see — 1 
see  a  dark-eyed  girl  of  Paradise,  and  she  waves  a  handkerchief,  a 
kerchief  of  green;  and  cries  aloud,  'Come,  kiss  me,  for  I  love 
thee.'  "  &c. 

II  Monkir  and  Nekir  are  the  inquisitors  of  the  dead,  before  whom 
the  corpse  undergoes  a  slight  novitiate  and  preparatory  training  for 
damnation.  If  the  answers  are  none  of  the  clearest,  he  is  hauled 
up  with  a  scythe  and  thumped  down  with  a  red-hot  mace  till  prop- 
erly seasoned,  with  a  variety  of  subsidiary  probations.  The  olflce 
of  "these  angels  is  no  sinecure;  there  are  but  two,  and  the  number 
of  orthodox  deceased  being  in  a  small  proportion  to  the  remainder, 
their  hands  are  always  full. 


^H- 


4 


THE  GIAOUR.  87 

And  from  its  torment  'scape  alone 
To  wander  round  lost  Eblis'  throne;* 
And  fire  unquench'd,  unquenchable, 
Around,  within,  thy  heart  shall  dwell; 
Nor  ear  can  hear  nor  tongue  can  tell 
The  tortures  of  that  inward  hell! 
But  first,  on  earth  as  Vampire  sent,t 
Thy  corse  shall  from  its  tomb  be  rent: 
Then  ghastly  haunt  thy  native  place, 
And  suck  the  blood  of  all  thy  race: 
There  from  thy  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
At  midnight  drain  the  stream  of  life; 
Yet  loathe  the  banquet  which  perforce 
Must  feed  thy  livid  living  corse: 
Thy  victims  ere  they  yet  expire 
Shall  know  the  demon  for  their  sire, 
As  cursing  thee,  thou  cursing  them. 
Thy  flowers  are  wither'd  on  the  stem. 
But  one  that  for  thy  crime  must  fall, 
The  youngest,  most  beloved  of  all. 
Shall  bless  thee  with  a,fat/ier^s  name — 
That  word  shall  wrap  thy  heart  in  flame! 
Yet  must  thou  end  thy  task,  and  mark 
Her  cheek's  last  tinge,  her  eye's  last  spark, 
And  the  last  glassy  glance  must  view 
Which  freezes  o'er  its  lifeless  blue; 
Then  with  unhallow'd  hand  shalt  tear 
The  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair. 
Of  which  in  life  a  lock  when  shorn 
Aifection's  fondest  pledge  was  worn; 
But  now  is  borne  away  by  thee, 
Memorial  of  thine  agony! 
Wet  with  thine  own  best  blood  shall  drlpt 
Thy  gnashing  tooth  and  haggard  lip; 
Then  stalking  to  thy  sullen  grave. 
Go — and  with  Ghouls  and  Afrits  rave; 
Till  these  in  horror  shrink  away 
From  spectre  more  accursed  than  they! 

"  How  name  ye  yon  lone  Caloyer? 

His  features  I  have  scann'd  before 
In  mine  own  land:  'tis  many  a  year. 

Since,  dashing  by  the  lonely  shore, 

*  Eblis.  the  Oriental  Prince  of  Darkness. 

t  The  Vampire  superstition  is  still  general  in  the  Levant.  Honest 
Tournefort  tells  a  long  story,  which  Mr.  Southey,  in  his  notes  on 
"Thalaba,"  quotes,  about  these  "  Vroucolochas,"  as  he  calls  them. 
The  Romaic  term  is  "  Vardoulacha."  I  recollect  a  whole  family  be- 
ing terrified  by  the  scream  of  a  child,  which  they  imagined  inust 
proceed  from  such  a  visitation.  The  Greeks  never  mention  the  word 
without  horror.  I  find  that  "Broucolokas  "  is  an  old  legtimate 
Hellenic  appellation— at  least  is  so  applied  to  Ai-senius,who,  accord- 
ing to  the  Greeks,  was  after  his  death  animated  by  the  devil. — The 
moderns,  however,  use  the  word  I  mention. 

t  The  freshness  of  the  face,  and  the  wetness  of  the  lips  with  blood, 
are  the  never-failing  signs  of  a  Vampire.  The  stories  told  in  Hun^ 
gary  and  Greece  of  these  foul  feeders  are  singular,  and  some  of 
them  most  incredibly  attested. 


♦* 


THE  GIAOUR. 

I  saw  him  urge  as  fleet  a  steed 
As  ever  served  a  horseman's  need. 
But  once  I  saw  that  face,  yet  then 
It  was  so  mark'd  with  inward  pain, 
I  could  not  pass  it  by  again; 
It  breathes  the  same  dark  spirit  now, 
As  death  were  stamped  upon  his  brow." 
"  'Tis  twice  three  years  at  summer  tide 

Since  first  among  our  fr^res  he  came; 
And  here  it  soothes  him  to  abide 

For  some  dark  deed  he  will  not  name. 
But  never  at  our  vesper  prayer. 
Nor  e'er  before  confession  chair 
Kneels  he,  nor  recks  he  when  arise 
Incense  or  anthem  to  the  skies; 
But  broods  within  his  cell  alone, 
His  faith  and  race  alike  unknown. 
The  sea  from  Paynim  land  he  crost, 
An^  here  ascended  from  the  coast; 
Yet  seems  he  not  of  Othman  race, 
But  only  Christian  in  his  face: 
I'd  judge  him  some  stray  renegade, 
Repentant  of  the  change  he  made, 
Save  that  he  shuns  our  holy  shrine, 
Nor  tastes  the  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Great  largess  to  these  walls  he  brought, 
And  thus  our  abbot's  favor  bought;" 
But  were  I  prior,  not  a  day 
Should  brook  such  stranger's  further  stay. 
Or  pent  within  our  penance  cell 
Should  doom  him  there  for  aye  to  dwell. 
Much  in  his  visions  mutters  he 
Of  maiden  whelm'd  beneath  the  sea: 
Of  sabres  clashing,  foemen  flying, 
Wrongs  avenged,  and  Moslem  dying. 
On  cliff  he  hath  been  known  to  stand. 
And  rave  as  to  some  bloody  hand, 
Fresh  sever' d  from  its  parent  limb, 
Invisible  to  all  but  him. 
Which  beckons  onward  to  his  grave, 
And  lures  to  leap  into  the  wave." 


Dark  and  unearthly  is  the  scowl 

That  glares  beneath  his  dusky  cowl: 

The  flash  of  that  dilating  eye 

Reveals  too  much  of  times  ^one  by; 

Though  varjang,  indistinct  its  hue, 

Oft  will  his  glance  the  gazer  rue, 

For  in  it  lurks  that  nameless  spell. 

Which  speaks,  itself  unspeakable, 

A  spirit  yet  unquell'd  and  high; 

That  claims  and  keeps  ascendancy; 

And  like  the  bird  whose  pinions  quake, 

But  cannot  fly  the  gazing  snake, 

Will  others  quail  beneath  his  look. 

Nor  'scape  the  glance  they  scarce  can  brook. 


A- 


THE  GIAOUK. 

From  him  the  half-affrighted  Friar 

When  met  alone  would  fain  retire, 

As  if  that  eye  and  bitter  smile 

Transferr'd  to  others  fear  and  guile: 

Not  oft  to  smile  descendeth  he, 

And  when  he  doth  'tis  sad  to  see 

That  he  but  mocks  at  Misery. 

How  that  pale  lip  will  curl  and  quiver! 

Then  fix  once  more  as  if  for  ever; 

As  if  his  sorrow  or  disdain 

Forbade  him  e'er  to  smile  again. 

Well  were  it  so — such  ghastly  mirth 

From  joyance  ne'er  derived  its  birth. 

But  sadder  still  it  were  to  trace 

What  once  were  feelings  in  that  face; 

Time  hath  not  yet  the  features  fix'd, 

But  brighter  traits  with  evil  mix'd; 

And  there  arc  hues  not  always  faded, 

Which  speak  a  mind  not  all  degraded, 

Even  by  the  crimes  through  which  it  wad-ed. 

The  common  crowd  but  see  the  gloom 

Of  wayward  deeds,  and  fitting  doom; 

The  close  observer  can  espy 

A  noble  soul,  and  lineage  high: 

Alas!  though  both  bestow'd  in  vain, 

Which  Grief  could  change,  and  Guilt  could  stain, 

It  was  no  vulgar  tenement 

To  which  such  lofty  gifts  were  lent. 

And  still  with  little  less  than  dread 

On  such  the  sight  is  riveted. 

The  roofless  cot,  decay 'd  and  rent. 

Will  scarce  delay  the  passer-by; 
The  tower  by  war  or  tempest  bent, 
While  yet  may  frown  one  battlement. 

Demands  and  daunts  the  stranger's  eye; 
Each  ivied  arch,  and  pillar  lone. 
Pleads  haughtily  for  glories  gone! 
"  His  floating  robe  around  him  folding, 

Slow  sweeps  he  through  the  cohimn'd  aisle; 
With  dread  beheld,  with  gioom  beholding 

The  rites  that  sanctify  the  pile. 
But  when  the  anthem  shakes  the  choir, 
And  kneel  the  monks,  his  steps  retire; 
By  yonder  lone  and  wavering  torch 
His  aspect  glares  within  the  porch; 
There  will  he  pause  till  all  is  done — 
And  hear  the  prayer,  but  utter  none. 
See — by  the  half-illumined  wall 
His  hood  fly  back,  his  dark  hair  fall, 
That  pale  brow  wildly  wreathing  round, 
As  if  the  Gorgon  there  had  bound 
The  sablest  of  the  serpent-braid 
That  o'er  her  fearful  forehead  stray'd; 
For  he  declines  the  convent  oath. 
And  leaves  those  locks'  unhallow'd  growth. 
But  wears  our  garb  in  all  beside; 
And,  not  from  piety  but  pride, 


i»a  THE  GIAOUR. 

Gives  wealth  to  walls  that  never  heard 
Of  his  one  holy  vow  nor  word. 
Lo!— mark  ye,  as  the  harmony 
Peals  louder  praises  to  the  sky, 
That  livid  cheek,  that  stony  air 
Of  mix'd  defiance  and  despair! 
Saint  Francis,  keep  him  from  the  shrine  I 
Else  may  we  dread  the  wrath  divine 
Made  manifest  by  awful  sign. 
If  ever  evil  annuel  bore 
The  form  of  mortal,  such  he  wore: 
By  all  my  hope  of  sins  foreiven, 
Such  looks  are  not  of  earth  nor  heavenl" 
To  love  the  softest  hearts  are  prone, 
But  such  can  ne'er  be  all  his  own; 
Too  timid  in  his  woes  to  share, 
Too  meek  to  meet,  or  brave  despair: 
And  sterner  hearts  alone  may  feel 
The  wound  that  time  can  never  heal. 
The  rugged  metal  of  the  mine 
Must  burn  before  its  surface  shine, 
But  plunged  within  the  furnace-flame, 
It  bends  and  melts — though  still  the  same; 
Then,  temper'd  to  thy  want,  or  will, 
'Twill  serve  thee  to  defend  or  kill: 
A  breastplate  for  thine  hour  of  need, 
.   Or  blade  to  bid  thy  foeman  bleed; 
But  if  a  dagger's  form  it  bear. 
Let  those  who  shape  its  edge,  bewarel 
Thus  passion's  fire,  and  woman's  art, 
Can  turn  and  tame  the  sterner  heart; 
From  these  its  form  and  tone  are  ta'en, 
And  what  they  make  it,  must  remain. 
But  break — before  it  bend  again. 

If  solitude  succeed  to  grief. 

Release  from  pain  is  slight  relief; 

The  vacant  bosom's  wilderness 

Might  thank  the  pang  that  made  it  less. 

We  loathe  what  none  are  left  to  share: 

Even  bliss — 'twere  woe  alone  to  bear; 

The  heart  once  left  thus  desolate 

Must  fly  at  once  for  ease  to  hate. 

It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 

The  icy  worm  around  them  steal, 

And  shudder,  as  the  reptiles  creep 

To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep. 

Without  the  power  to  scare  away 

The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay! 

It  is  as  if  the  desert-bird,* 

Whose  beak  unlocks  her  bosom's  stream 
To  still  her  famish'd  nestlings'  scream. 

Nor  mourns  a  life  to  them  transferred, 

Should  rend  her  rash  devoted  breast. 

And  find  them  flown  her  empty  nest. 

♦  The  pelican  is.  I  believe,  the  bird  so  libelled,  by  the  Imputation 
of  feeding  her  chickens  with  her  blood. 


•^mmmmmiimmmm 


THE  GIAOUR. 

The  keenest  pangs  the  wretched  find 

Are  rapture  to  the  di  jary  void, 
The  leafless  desert  of  the  mind, 

The  waste  of  feelings  unemploy'd. 
Who  would  be  doom'd  to  gaze  upon 
A  sky  without  a  cloud  or  sun! 
Less  hideous  far  the  tempest's  roar 
Than  ne'er  to  brave  the  billows  more — 
Thrown,  when  the  war  of  winds  is  o'er, 
A  lonely  wreck  on  fortune's  shore, 
'Mid  sullen  calm,  and  silent  bay. 
Unseen  to  drop  by  dull  decay; — 
Better  to  sink  beneath  the  shock 
Than  moulder  piecemeal  on  the  rock! 

"  Father!  thy  days  have  pass'd  in  peace, 

'Mid  counted  beads,  and  countless  prayer; 
To  bid  the  sins  of  others  cease. 

Thyself  without  a  crime  or  care. 
Save  transient  ills  that  all  must  bear. 
Has  been  thy  lot  from  youth  to  age; 
And  thou  wilt  bless  thee  from  the  rage 
Of  passions  fierce  and  uncontroll'd. 
Such  as  thy  penitents  unfold. 
Whose  secret  sins  and  sorrows  rest 
Within  thy  pure  and  pitying  breast. 
My  days,  though  few,  have  pass'd  below 
In  much  of  joy,  but  more  oi  woe; 
Yet  still,  in  hours  of  love  or  strife, 
I've  'scaped  the  weariness  of  life: 
Now  leagued  with  friends,  now  girt  by  foes, 
I  loathed  the  languor  of  repose. 
Now  nothing  left  to  love  or  hate,  ^ 

No  more  with  hope  or  pride  elate, 
I'd  rather  be  the  thing  that  crawls 
Most  noxious  o'er  a  dungeon's  walls, 
Than  pass  my  dull,  unvarying  days, 
Condemn'd  to  meditate  and  gaze. 
Yet,  lurks  a  wish  within  my  oreast 
For  rest — but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest. 
Soon  shall  my  fate  that  wish  fulfil: 

And  I  shall  sleep  without  the  dream 
Of  what  I  was,  and  would  be  still. 

Dark  as  to  thee  my  deeds  may  seem: 
My  memory  now  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  joys  long  dead;  my  hope,  their  doom; 
Though  better  to  have  died  with  those 
Than  bear  a  life  of  lingering  woes. 
My  spii'it  shrunk  not  to  sustain 
The  searching  throes  of  ceaseless  pain; 
Nor  sought  the  self-accorded  grave 
Of  ancient  fool  and  modem  knave: 
Yet  death  I  have  not  fear'd  to  meet; 
And  in  the  field  it  had  been  sweet. 
Had  danger  woo'd  me  on  to  move 
The  slave  of  glory,  not  of  love. 
I've  braved  it— not  for  honor's  boast; 


91 


92  THE  GIAOUR. 

I  smile  at  laurels  won  or  lost; 

To  such  let  others  carve  their  way, 

For  high  renown,  or  hireling  pay: 

But  place  again  before  my  eyes 

Aught  that  I  deem  a  worthy  prize; 

The  maid  I  love,  the  man  1  hate, 

And  I  will  hunt  the  steps  of  fate, 

To  save  or  slay,  as  these  require. 

Through  rending  steel,  and  rolling  fire: 

Nor  need'st  thou  doubt  this  speech  from  one 

Who  would  but  do — what  he  hath  done. 

Death  is  but  what  the  haughty  brave. 

The  weak  must  bear,  the  wretch  must  crave; 

Then  let  Life  go  to  Him  who  gave; 

I  have  not  quail'd  to  danger's  brow 

When  high  and  happy — need  I  n<yw  f 

**  I  loved  her,  Friar!  nay,  adored — 

But  these  are  words  that  all  can  use — 
I  proved  it  more  in  deed  than  word; 
There's  blood  upon  that  dinted  sword, 

A  stain  its  steel  can  never  lose: 
'Twas  shed  for  her,  who  died  for  me. 

It  warm'd  the  heart  of  one  abhorr'd: 
Nay,  start  not — no — nor  bend  thy  knee,  ] 

Nor  'midst  my  sins  such  acts  record; 
TTiou  wilt  absolve  me  from  the  deed, 
For  he  was  hostile  to  thy  creed: 
The  very  name  of  Nazarene 
Was  wormwood  to  his  Paynim  spleen. 
Ungrateful  fool  I  since  but  for  brands 
Well  wielded  in  some  hardy  hands, 
And  wounds  by  Galileans  given, 
The  surest  pass  to  Turkish  heaven, 
For  him  his  Houris  still  might  wait 
Impatient  at  the  Prophet's  gate. 
I  loved  her — love  will  find  its  way 
Through  paths  where  wolves  would  fear  to  prey; 
And  if  it  dares  enough,  'twere  hard 
If  passion  met  not  some  reward — 
No  matter  how,  or  where,  or  why, 
I  did  not  vainly  seek,  nor  sigh: 
Yet  sometimes,  with  remorse,  in  vain 
I  wish  she  had  not  loved  again. 
She  died — I  dare  not  tell  thee  how; 
But  look — 'tis  written  on  my  brow! 
There  read  of  Cain  the  curse  and  crime, 
In  characters  unworn  by  time: 
Still,  ere  thou  dost  condemn  me,  pruse; 
Not  mine  the  act,  though  I  the  cause. 
Yet  did  he  but  what  I  had  done 
Had  she  been  false  to  more  than  one. 
Faithless  to  him,  he  gave  the  blow; 
But  true  to  me,  I  laid  him  low: 
Howe'er  deserved  her  doom  might  be, 
Her  treachery  was  truth  to  me; 
To  me  she  gave  her  heart,  that  all 

Hft — f 


THE  GIAOUR. 


93 


Which  tyranny  can  ne'er  enthrall; 

And  I,  alas!  too  late  to  save! 

Yet  all  I  then  could  give,  I  gave— 

'Twas  some  relief — our  foe  a  grave. 

His  death  sits  lightly;  but  her  fate 

Has  made  me— what  thou  well  may'st  hate. 

His  doom  was  seal'd— he  knew  it  well, 
Warn'd  by  the  voice  of  stem  Taheer, 
Deep  in  whose  darkly  boding  ear* 
The  death-shot  peal'd  of  murder  near, 

As  filed  the  troop  to  where  they  fell! 
He  died  too  in  the  battle  broil, 
A  time  that  heeds  nor  pain  nor  toil; 
One  cry  to  Mohammed  for  aid, 
One  prayer  to  Allah  all  he  made: 
He  knew  and  cross' d  me  in  the  fray — 

*  This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing  (fori  never  met  with  down- 
right second-sight  in  the  East)  fell  once  under  my  own  observation. 
On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Colonna,  early  in  1811,  as  we  passed 
through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  hamlet  between  Keratia  and 
Colonna,  I  observed  Dervish  Tahiri,  riding  rather  out  of  the  path, 
and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  in  pain.  I  rode  up  and 
inquired.  "We  are  in  peril,"  he  answered.— "  What  peril?  we  are 
nor.  now  in  Albania,  nor  in  the  passes  to  Ephesus,  Messalunghi,  or 
Lepanto;  there  are  plenty  of  us,  well  armed,  and  the  Choriates  have 
not  courage  to  be  thieves. "—"  True,  Affendi,  but  nevertheless  the 
shot  is  ringing  in  my  ears." — "The  shot!  not  a  tophaike  has  been 
fired  this  morning."— "I  hear  it,  notwithstanding— Bom— Bom— as 
plainly  as  I  hear  your  voice."— "  Psha!"— "As  you  please,  Affendi; 
if  it  is  written,  so  will  it  be."— I  left  this  quick-eared  predestinarian, 
and  rode  up  to  Basili,  his  Christian  compatriot,  whose  ears,  though 
not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means  relished  the  intelligence.  We  all 
arrived  at  Colonna,  remained  some  hours,  and  returned  leisurely, 
saying  a  variety  of  brilliant  things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled 
the  building  of  Babel,  upon  the  mistaken  seer.  Romaic,  Ai-naut, 
Turkish,  Italian,  and  English  were  all  exercised,  in  various  conceits, 
upon  the  unfortunate  Mussulman.  While  we  were  contemplating 
the  beautiful  prospect.  Dervish  was  occupied  about  the  columns.  I 
thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  antiquarian,  and  asked  him  if  he 
had  become  a  "  Palac-castro'"  man?  "No,"  said  he,  "but  these  pil- 
lars will  be  useful  in  making  a  stand;"  and  added  other  remarks, 
which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  his  troublesome  faculty  of 
fore-hearing.  On  our  return  to  Athens  we  heard  from  Leon6  (a  pris- 
oner set  ashore  some  days  after)  of  the  intended  attack  of  the 
Mainotes,  mentioned,  with  the  cause  of  its  not  taking  place,  in  the 
notes  to  "Childe  Harold, "  Canto  II.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  question 
the  man,  andhe  described  the  dresses,  arms,  and  marks  of  the  horses 
of  our  party  so  accurately,  that,  with  other  circumstances,  we  could 
not  doubt  of  his  being  in  "  villainous  company,"  and  ourselves  in  a 
bad  neighborhood.  Dervish  becime  a  soothsayer  for  life,  and  I  dare 
say  he  is  now  hearing  more  musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired,  to  the 
great  refreshment  of  the  Arnauts  of  Berat,  and  his  native  moun- 
tains.—I  shall  mention  one  trait  moi'e  of  this  singular  race.  In 
March,  1811,  a  remarkably  stout  and  active  Arnaut  came  (I  believe 
the  fiftieth  on  the  same  errand)  to  offer  himself  as  an  attendant, 
which  was  declined.  "  Well,  Affendi,"  quoth  he,  "may  you  live!— 
you  would  have  found  me  useful.  I  shall  leave  the  town  for  the  hills 
to-morrow ;  in  the  winter  I  return ;  perhaps  you  will  then  receive 
me." — Dei-vish,  who  was  present,  remarked  asa  thing  of  course,  and 
of  no  consequence,  "In  the  meantime  he  will  join  the  Klephtes" 
(robbers),  which  was  true  to  the  letter.  If  not  cut  off,  they  come 
down  in  the  winter,  and  pass  it  unmolested  in  some  town,where  they 
aro  often  as  well  known  as  their  exploits. 


4 


04  THE  GIAOUR. 

I  gazed  upon  him  where  he  lay, 

And  watch'd  his  spirit  ebb  away: 

Though  pierced  like  pard  by  hunter's  steel, 

He  felt  not  half  that  now  I  feel. 

I  searched,  but  vainly  search'd,  to  find 

The  workings  of  a  wounded  mind; 

Each  feature  of  that  sullen  corse 

Betray'd  his  rage,  but  no  remorse. 

Oh,  what  had  V  eugeance  given  to  trace 

Despair  upon  his  dying  face! 

The  late  repentance  of  that  hour 

When  Penitence  hath  lost  her  power 

To  tear  one  terror  from  the  grave. 

And  will  not  soothe,  and  cannot  save. 

"  The  cold  in  clime  are  cold  in  blood, 

Their  love  can  scarce  deserve  the  name, 
But  mine  was  like  the  lava  flood 

That  boils  in  Etna's  breast  of  flame. 
I  cannot  prate  in  puling  strain 
Of  lady-love  and  beauty's  chain: 
If  changing  cheek,  and  scorching  vein. 
Lips  taught  to  writhe,  but  not  complain, 
If  bursting  heart,  and  madd'ning  brain. 
And  daring  deed,  and  vengeful  steel. 
And  all  that  I  have  felt,  and  feel. 
Betoken  love — that  love  was  mine. 
And  shown  by  many  a  bitter  sign. 
'Tis  true,  I  could  not  whine  nor  sigh, 
I  knew  but  to  obtain  or  die. 
I  die — but  first,  I  have  possess'd, 
And  come  what  may,  I  have  been  bless'd. 
Shall  I  the  doom  I  sought  upbraid? 
No — reft  of  all,  yet  undismay'd 
But  for  the  thought  of  Leila  slain, 
Give  me  the  pleasure  with  the  pain. 
So  would  I  live  and  love  again. 
I  grieve,  but  not,  my  holy  guide! 
For  him  who  dies,  but  her  who  died: 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  wandering  wave— 
Ah!  had  she  but  an  earthly  grave. 
This  breaking  heart  and  throbbing  head 
Should  seek  and  share  her  narrow  bed. 
She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light. 
That,  seen,  became  a  part  of  sight; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turn'd  mine  eye, 
The  Morning-star  of  Memory! 
"  Yes,  Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven; 

A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 
With  angels  shared,  by  Allah  given. 

To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 
Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above. 
But  Heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 
A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught, 
To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought; 
A  Ray  of  Him  who  form'd  the  whole; 
A  Glory  circling  round  the  soull 


t- 


♦«. 


i 


THE  GIAOUR. 

I  grant  my  love  imperfect,  all 
That  mortals  by  the  name  miscall; 
Then  deem  it  evil,  what  thou  wilt; 
But  say,  oh  say,  hers  was  not  guilt  1 
She  was  my  life's  unerring  light: 
That  quench'd,  what  beam  shall  break  my  night' 
Oh!  would  it  shone  to  lead  me  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill! 
Why  marvel  ye,  if  they  who  lose 
This  present  joy,  this  future  hope, 
No  more  with  sorrow  meekly  cope; 
In  frenzy  then  their  fate  accuse: 
In  madness  do  those  fearful  deeds 

That  seem  to  add  but  guilt  to  woe? 
Alas!  the  breast  that  inly  bleeds 

Hath  nought  to  dread  from  outward  blow: 
Who  falls  from  all  he  knows  of  bliss, 
Cares  little  into  what  abyss. 
Fierce  as  the  gloomy  vulture's  now 

To  thee,  old  man,  my  deeds  appear: 
I  read  abhorrence  on  thy  brow. 

And  this  too  was  I  bom  to  bear! 
'Tis  true,  that,  like  that  bird  of  prey. 
With  havoc  have  I  mark'd  my  way: 
But  this  was  taught  me  by  the  dove, 
To  die — and  know  no  second  love. 
This  lesson  yet  hath  man  to  learn, 
Taught  by  the  thing  he  dares  to  spumi 
The  bird  that  sings  within  the  brake, 
The  swan  that  swims  upon  the  lake, 
One  mate,  and  one  alone,  will  take. 
And  let  the  fool  still  prone  to  range. 
And  sneer  on  all  who  cannot  change, 
Partake  his  jest  with  boasting  boys; 
I  envy  not  his  varied  joys, 
But  deem  such  feeble,  heartless  man, 
Less  than  yon  solitary  swan; 
Far,  far  beneath  the  shallow  maid 
He  left  believing  and  betray'd. 
Such  shame  at  least  was  never  mine — 
Leila!  each  thought  was  only  thine! 
My  good,  my  guilt,  my  weal,  my  woe. 
My  hope  on  high— my  all  below. 
Earth  holds  no  other  like  to  thee, 
Or,  if  it  doth,  in  vain  for  me: 
For  worlds  I  dare  not  view  the  dame 
Resembling  thee,  yet  not  the  same. 
The  very  crimes  that  mar  my  youth. 
This  bed  of  death— attest  my  truth! 
'Tis  all  too  late— thou  wert,  thou  art 
The  cherish'd  madness  of  my  heart! 
"And  she  was  lost— and  yet  I  breathed. 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life; 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed. 
And  stung  my  every  thought  to  strife. 
Alike  all  time,  abhorr'd  all  place, 
Shuddering  I  shrunk  from  Nature's  face. 


95 


Ht- 


Jk 


4 


96  THE  GIAOUR. 

"Where  every  hue  that  charm'd  before 

The  blackness  of  my  bosom  wore. 

The  rest  thou  dost  already  know, 

And  all  my  sins,  and  half  my  woe. 

But  talk  no  more  of  penitence; 

Thou  see'st  I  soon  shall  part  from  hence: 

And  if  thy  holy  tale  were  true. 

The  deed  that's  done,  canst  t?wu  undo? 

Think  me  not  thankless — but  this  grief 

Looks  not  to  priesthood  for  relief.* 

My  soul's  estate  in  secret  guess: 

But  wouldst  thou  pity  more,  say  less. 

"When  thou  canst  bid  my  Leila  live, 

Then  will  I  sue  thee  to  forgive; 

Then  plead  my  cause  in  that  high  place 

"Where  purchased  masses  proffer  grace. 

Go,  when  the  hunter's  hand  hath  wrung 

From  forest-cave  her  shrieking  young, 

And  calm  the  lonely  lioness: 

But  soothe  not — mock  not  my  distress! 

"In  earlier  days,  and  calmer  hours. 

When  heart  with  heart  delights  to  blend, 
Where  bloom  my  native  valley's  bowers, 

I  had— ah!  have  I  now? — a  friend! 
To  him  this  pledge  I  charge  thee  send, 

Memorial  of  a  youthful  vow;  « 

I  would  remind  him  of  my  end: 

Though  souls  absorb'd  like  mine  allow 
Brief  thought  to  distant  friendship's  claim, 
Tf  et  dear  to  him  my  blighted  name. 
'Tis  strange — he  prophesied  my  doom, 

And  I  have  smiled — I  then  could  smile — 
"When  Prudence  would  his  voice  assume, 

And  warn — I  reck'd  not  what — ^the  while; 
But  now  remembrance  whispers  o'er 
Those  accents  scarcely  mark'd  before. 
Say — that  his  bodings  came  to  pass, 

And  he  will  start  to  hear  their  truth. 

And  wish  his  words  had  not  been  sooth: 
Tell  him,  unheeding  as  I  was, 

Through  many  a  busy  bitter  scene 

Of  all  our  golden  youth  had  been, 
In  pain,  my  faltering  tongue  had  tried 
To  bless  his  memory  ere  I  died; 
But  Heaven  in  wrath  would  turn  away, 
If  Guilt  should  for  the  guiltless  pray.' 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  nlame. 
Too  gentle  he  to  wound  my  name; 
And  what  have  I  to  do  with  fame? 
I  do  not  ask  him  not  to  mourn, 
Such  cold  request  iniudit  nound  like  scorn; 

*The  monk's  sermon  is  omiLttd.  IL  s(>oius  to  have  had  so  little 
effect  upon  the  ijatient,  that  it  could  have  no  hopes  from  the  reader. 
It  may  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  it  was  of  a  customary  IcMip^th  (as 
may  be  perceived  from  the  interruptions  and  uneasiness  of  the  peni- 
tent), and  was  delivered  in  the  nasal  tone  of  all«>rtli.),l,.x  in-eacners. 


f 


THE  GIAOUR. 


97 


And  what  than  friendship's  manly  tear 
May  better  grace  a  brother's  bier? 
But  bear  this  ring,  his  own  of  old, 
And  tell  him — what  thou  dost  behold! 
The  wither'd  frame,  the  ruin'd  mind. 
The  wrack  by  passion  left  behind, 
A  shriveli'd  scroll,  a  scatter'd  leaf, 
Sear'd  by  the  autumn  blast  of  grief! 

"  Tell  me  no  more  of  fancy's  gleam. 
No,  father,  no,  'twas  not  a  dream; 
Alas!  the  dreamer  first  must  sleep, 
I  only  watch'd,  and  wish'd  to  weep; 
But  could  not,  for  my  burning  brow 
Throbb'd  to  the  very  brain  as  now: 
I  wish'd  but  for  a  single  tear. 
As  something  welcome,  new,  and  dear: 
I  wish'd  it  then,  I  wish  it  still; 
Despair  is  stronger  than  my  will. 
Waste  not  thine  orison,  despair 
Is  mightier  than  thy  pious  prayen 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  be  blest; 
I  want  no  paradise,  but  rest. 
'Twas  then,  I  tell  thee,  father!  then 
I  saw  her;  yes,  she  lived  again; 
And  shining  in  her  white  symar,  * 
As  through  yon  pale  gray  cloud  the  star 
Which  now  I  gaze  on,  as  on  her, 
Who  look'd,  and  looks  far  lovelier; 
Dimly  I  view  its  trembling  spark; 
To-morrow's  night  shall  1^  more  dark; 
And  I,  before  its  rays  apx)ear, 
That  lifeless  thing  the  living  fear. 
I  wander,  father!  for  my  soul 
Is  fleeting  towards  the  final  goaL 
I  saw  her,  friar!  and  I  rose 
Forgetful  of  our  former  woes; 
And  rushing  from  my  couch,  I  dart, 
And  clasp  her  to  my  desperate  heart; 
I  clasp — what  is  it  that  I  clasp? 
No  breathing  form  within  my  grasp, 
No  heart  that  beats  reply  to  mine, 
Yet,  Leila!  yet  the  form  is  thine! 
And  art  thou,  dearest,  changed  so  much, 
As  meet  my  eye,  yet  mock  my  touch? 
Ah!  were  thy  beauties  e'er  so  cold, 
I  care  not;  so  my  arms  unfold 
The  all  they  ever  wish'd  to  hold. 
Alas!  around  a  shadow  prest. 
They  shrink  upon  my  lonely  breast; 
Yet  still  'tis  there!    In  silence  stands, 
And  beckons  with  beseeching  hands! 
With  braided  hair,  and  bright-black  eye— 
I  knew  'twas  false — she  could  not  die! 
But  he  is  dead!  within  the  dell 
I  saw  him  buried  where  he  fell; 
♦  "Symar,"  shroud. 


*iir 


** 


»8  THE  GIAOUR. 

He  comes  not,  for  he  cannot  break 
From  earth;  why  then  art  thou  awake? 
They  told  me  wild  waves  roll'd  above 
The  face  I  view,  the  form  I  love: 
They  told  me — %wa,B  a  hideous  tale! 
I'd  tell  it,  but  my  tongue  would  fail; 
If  true,  and  from  thine  ocean-cave 
Thou  com'st  to  claim  a  calmer  grave; 
Oh!  pass  thy  dewy  fingers  o'er 
This  brow  that  then  will  burn  no  more; 
Or  place  them  on  my  hopeless  heart: 
But,  shape  (>r  shade!  whate'er  thou  art. 
In  mercy  ne'er  again  depart! 
Or  farther  with  thee  bear  my  soul 
Than  winds  can  waft  and  waters  roll! 

*'  Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor  1  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  bewail. 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing^  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  with  the  humblest  dead. 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread. 
By  prying  strang^er  to  be  read, 
Or  stay  the  passing  pilgrim's  tread." 

He  pass'd — nor  of  his  name  and  race 
Hath  left  a  token  or  a  trace, 
Save  what  the  father  must  not  say 
Who  shriv'd  him  on  his  dying  day: 
This  broken  tale  was  all  we  knew 
Of  her  he  loved,  or  him  he  slew.* 

-*  The  circumstance  to  which  the  above  storj^  relates  was  not  very 
uncommon  in  Turkey.  A  few  years  ago,  the  wife  of  Muchtar  Pacha 
complained  to  his  father  of  his  son's  supposed  infideliiy;  he  asked 
with  whom,  and  she  had  the  barbarity  to  give  in  a  ht,t  of  the  twelve 
handsomest  women  in  Yanina.  They  w^eie  seized,  fastened  up  in 
sacks,  and  drowned  in  the  lake  the  same  night !  One  of  the  guards 
who  was  present  informed  me  that  not  one  of  the  victims  utteied  a 
cry,  or  showed  a  symptom  of  terror,  at  so  sudden  a  "wrench  from 
all  we  know,  from  all  we  love.'*  The  fate  of  Phrosine,  the  fairest  of 
this  sacrifice,  is  the  subject  of  many  a  Romaic  and  Arnaut  ditty. 
The  story  in  the  text  is  one  told  of  a  young  Venetian  many  yeai-s 
ago,  and  now  nearly  forgotten.  I  heard  it  by  accident  recited  by 
one  of  the  coffee-house  story-tellers  who  abound  in  the  Levant,  and 
sing  or  recite  their  narratives.  The  additions  and  interpolations  by 
the  translator  will  be  easily  distinguished  from  the  re.st,  by  theAvant 
of  Eastern  imagery;  and  I  regret  that  my  memory  has  retained  so 
few  fragments  of  the  original.  For  the  contents  of  some  of  the 
notes,  I  am  indebted  partly  to  D'Herbelot,  and  partly  to  that  most 
Eastern,  and,  as  Mr.  Weber  justly  entitles  it,  '•sublime  tale,"  the 
"  Caliph  Vathek  "  I  do  not  know  from  what  source  the  author  of 
thatsmgular  vohime  may  have  drawn  his  materials;  some  of  his 
incidents  are  to  be  found  in  the  "Biblioth^que  Orientale;"  but  for 
correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  description,  and  power  of  imagi- 
nation, it  far  surpasses  all  Eiiropean  imitations;  and  bears  such 
marks  of  originality,  that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  find 
some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a  translation.  As  an 
Eastern  tale,  even  Rasselas  must  bow  before  it;  his  *'  Happy  Valley" 
will  not  bear  a  comparison  with  the  "Hall  of  Eblis.'* 


t 


it 


-* 


iK 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABIDOS; 


A  TURKISH  TALE. 


Had  we  never  loved  so  kindly. 

Had  we  never  loved  so  blindly, 

Never  met  or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted."— Burns. 


TO 

THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  LORD  HOLLAND 

THIS  TALK  IS  IN8CEIBED, 

WITH  KVBUT  SENTIMENT  OF  REGARD  AND  RESPECT, 

BY  HIS  GRATEFULLY  OBLIGED  AND 

SINCERE  FRIEND, 

BYRON. 


ih 


^h 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime, 

Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 

Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine. 

Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine; 

Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppress' d  with  perfume. 

Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Giil  in  her  bloom;  * 

Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit. 

And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute; 

Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 

In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie. 

And  the  purple  of  Ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 

Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 

And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine? 

'Tis  the  clime  of  the  East;  'tis  the  land  of  the  Sun — 

Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done?  + 

Oh!  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 

Arc  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell. 

II. 

Begirt  with  many  a  gallant  slave, 
Apparell'd  as  becomes  the  brave, 
Awaiting  each  his  lord's  behest 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  guard  his  rest, 
Old  Giafflr  sate  m  his  Divan: 

Deep  thought  was  in  his  aged  eye; 
And  though  the  face  of  Mussulman 

Not  oft  betrays  to  standers  by 
The  mind  within,  well  skilfd  to  hide 
All  but  unconquerable  pride, 
His  pensive  cheek  and  pondering  brow 
Did  more  than  he  was  wont  avow. 


•"G<il,"  the  rose. 

t  "  Souls  made  of  Are,  and  children  of  the  Sun, 
With  whom  revenge  is  virtue." 

YouNo's  "RmtKOK.'* 


CANTO  I.] 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS. 


101 


III. 

"  Let  the  chamber  be  clear'd."— The  train  disappear'd — 

"  Now  call  me  the  chief  of  the  Harem  guard." 
With  Giaifir  is  none  but  his  only  sod, 
And  the  Nubian  awaiting  the  sire's  award, 

"  Haroun — when  all  the  crowd  that  wait 

Are  pass'd  beyond  the  outer  gate, 

(Woe  to  the  head  whose  eye  beheld 

My  child  Zuleika's  face  unveil'd!) 

Hence,  l^ad  my  daughter  from  her  tower; 

Her  fate  is  flx'd  this  very  hour: 

Yet  not  to  her  repeat  my  thought; 

By  me  alone  be  duty  taught!" 

"Pacha!  to  hear  is  to  obey." 
No  more  must  slave  to  despot  say — 
Then  to  the  tower  had  ta'en  his  way, 
But  here  young  Selim  silence  brake. 

First  lowly  rendering  reverence  meet! 
And  downcast  look'd,  and  gently  spake, 

Still  standing  at  the  Pacha's  feet: 
For  son  of  Moslem  must  expire, 
.    Ere  dare  to  sit  before  his  sire! 

"  Father!  for  fear  that  thou  shouldst  chide 
My  sister,  or  her  sable  guide. 
Know— for  the  fault,  if  fault  there  be, 
Was  mine — then  fall  thy  frowns  on  me — 
So  lovelily  the  morning  shone. 

That — ^let  the  old  and  weary  sleep — 
I  could  not;  and  to  view  alone 

The  fairest  scenes  of  land  and  deep, 
With  none  to  listen  and  reply 
To  thoughts  with  which  my  heart  beat  high, 
Were  irksome — for  whatever  my  mood, 
In  sooth  I  love  not  solitude; 
I  on  Zuleika's  slumber  broke. 

And,  as  thou  knowest  that  for  me 

Soon  turns  the  Harem's  grating  key 
Before  the  guar^an  slaves  awoke 
We  to  the  cypress  groves  had  flown, 
And  made  earth,  main,  and  heaven  our  own! 
There  linger'd  we,  begxiiled  too  long 
With  Mejnoun's  tale,  or  Sadi's  song,* 
Till  I,  who  heard  the  deep  tambour  t 
Beat  thy  Divan's  approaching  hour, 
To  thee,  and  to  my  duty  true, 
Wam'd  by  the  sound,  to  greet  thee  flew: 
But  there  Zuleika  wanders  yet — 
Nay,  father,  rage  not — nor  forget 
That  none  can  pierce  that  secret  bower 
But  those  who  watch  the  women's  tower. " 

♦  Mejnoun  and  Leila,  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  the  East.  Sadi,  the 
moral  poet  of  Persia. 

t  '"Tambour,"  Turkish  drum,  which  sounds  at  sunrise,  noon,  and 
twilight. 


m* 


— flK 

103  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYD08.  [canto  i. 

IV. 

**  Son  of  a  Blave  " — the  Pacha  said — 

**  From  unbelieving  mother  bred, 

Vain  were  a  fathers  hope  to  see 

Aught  that  beseems  a  man  in  thee. 

Thou,  when  thine  arm  should  bend  the  bow, 

And  hurl  the  dart,  and  curb  the  steed, 

Thou,  Greek  in  soul  if  not  in  creed, 
Must  pore  where  babbling  waters  flow, 
And  watch  unfolding  roses  blow.  . 
Would  that  yon  orb,  whose  matin  glow 
Thy  listless  eyes  so  much  admire, 
Would  lend  thee  something  of  his  fire! 
Thou,  who  -v^ouldst  see  this  battlement 
By  Christian  cannon  piecemeal  rent; 
Nay,  tamely  view  old  Stamboul's  wall 
Before  the  dogs  of  Moscow  fall. 
Nor  strike  one  stroke  for  life  and  death 
Against  the  curs  of  Nazareth! 
Go— let  thy  less  than  woman's  hand 
Assume  the  distaff — not  the  brand. 
But,  Haroun! — ^to  my  daughter  speed: 
And  hark — of  thine  own  head  take  heed — 
If  thus  Zuleika  oft  takes  wing — 
Thou  see'st  yon  bow — it  hath  a  string!" 

V. 

No  sound  from  Selim's  lip  was  heard, 

At  least  that  met  old  Giaffir's  ear, 
But  every  frown  and  every  word 
Pierced  keener  than  a  Christian's  sword. 

"  Son  of  a  slave! — reproach 'd  with  fear! 

Those  gibes  had  cost  another  dear. 
Son  of  a  slave! — and  who  my  sire?" 

Thus  held  his  thoughts  their  dark  career: 
And  glances  e'en  of  more  than  ire 

Flash  forth,  then  faintly  disappear. 
Old  Giaffir  gazed  upon  his  son 

And  started;  for  within  his  eye 
He  read  how  much  his  wr^th  had  done; 
He  saw  rebellion  there  begun: 

**  Come  hither,  boy — what,  no  reply? 
I  mark  thee — and  I  know  thee  too; 
But  there  be  deeds  thou  dar'st  not  do: 
But  if  thy  beard  had  manlier  length. 
And  if  thy  hand  had  skill  and  strength, 
I'd  joy  to  see  thee  break  a  lance. 
Albeit  against  my  own  perchance." 

As  sneeringly  these  accents  fell, 
On  Selim's  eye  he  fiercely  gazed: 

That  eye  return'd  him  glance  for  glance. 
And  proudly  to  his  sire's  was  raised, 

Till  Giaffir's  quail'd  and  shrunk  askance — 
And  why— he  felt,  but  durst  not  tell. 

"  Much  I  misdoubt  this  wayward  boy 

Will  one  day  work  me  more  annoy: 

♦* *■ 


it 


4e 


CAHTO  I.]  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  103 

I  never  loved  him  from  his  birth, 

And — but  his  arm  is  little  worth, 

And  scarcely  in  the  chase  could  cope 

With  timid  fawn  or  antelope, 

Far  less  would  venture  into  strife 

Where  man  contends  for  fame  and  life — 

I  would  not  trust  that  look  or  tone: 

No — ^nor  the  blood  so  near  my  own. 

That  blood — he  hath  not  heard — ^no  more — 

I'll  watch  him  closer  than  before. 

He  is  an  Arab  to  my  sight,* 

Or  Christian  crouching  in  the  fight — 

But  hark! — I  hear  Zuleika's  voice; 

Like  Houris*  hymn  it  meets  mine  ear; 
She  is  the  offspring  of  my  choice; 

Oh!  more  than  e'en  her  mother  dear, 
"With  all  to  hope,  and  nought  to  fear — 
My  Peri! — ever  welcome  here! 
Sweet,  as  the  desert  fountain's  wave, 
To  lips  just  cool'd  in  time  to  save — 

Such  to  my  longing  sight  art  thou; 
Nor  can  they  waft  to  Mecca's  shrine 
More  thanks  for  life,  than  I  for  thine, 

Who  blest  thy  birth,  and  bless  thee  now,*' 

VI.  ^ 

Fair,  as  the  first  that  fell  of  womankind, 

When  on  that  dread  yet  lovely  serpent  smiling. 
Whose  image  then  was  stamp'd  upon  her  mind — 

But  once  beguiled — and  evermore  beguiling; 
Dazzling,  as  that,  oh!  too  transcendent  vision 

To  Sorrow's  phantom-peopled  slumber  given. 
When  heart  meets  heart  again  in  dreams  Elysian, 

And  paints  the  lost  on  Earth  revived  in  ifeaven; 
Soft,  as  the  memory  of  buried  love; 
Pure,  as  the  prayer  which  Childhood  wafts  above; 
Was  she — the  daughter  of  that  rude  old  Chief, 
Who  met  the  maid  with  tears — but  not^  of  grief. 
WTio  hath  not  proved  how  feebly  words  essay 
To  fix  one  spark  of  Beauty's  heavenly  ray? 
Who  doth  not  feel,  until  his  failing  sight 
Faints  into  dimness  with  his  own  delight, 
His  changing  cheek,  his  sinking  heart  confess 
The  might — the  majesty  of  Loveliness? 
Such  was  Zuleika — such  around  her  shone 
The  nameless  charms  unmark'd  by  her  alone; 
The  light  of  love,  the  purity  of  grace, 
The  niind,  the  Music  breathing  from  her  face,t 
The  heart  whose  softness  harmonized  the  whole — 
And,  oh!  that  eye  was  in  itself  a  Soul! 
Her  graceful  arms  in  meekness  bending 

Across  her  gently-budding  breast; 

*  The  Turks  abhor  the  Arabs  (who  return  the  compliment  a  hun- 
dred-fold) even  more  than  they  hate  the  Christians. 

t  This  expi-ession  has  met  with  objections.  I  will  not  refer  to 
"Him  who  hath  not  Music  in  his  soul,"  but  merely  request  the 
reader  to  recollect,  for  ten  seconds,  the  features  of  the  woman 
whom  he  believes  to  be  the  most  beautiful:  and  if  he  then  does  not 


^^ 


*♦ 


104  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  [camto  i. 

At  one  kind  word  those  arms  extending 
To  clasp  the  neck  of  him  who  bleflt 
His  child  caressing  and  carest, 
Zuleika  came — and  Giafiir  felt 
His  purpose  half  within  him  melt: 
Not  that  against  her  fancied  weal 
His  heart  though  stem  could  ever  feel; 
Affection  chain'd  her  to  that  heart; 
Ambition  tore  the  links  apart. 


*'  Zuleika!  child  of  gentleness  I 

How  dear  this  very  day  must  tell. 
When  I  forget  my  own  distresB, 

In  losing  what  I  love  so  well, 

To  bid  thee  with  another  dwell: 

Anotherl  and  a  braver  man 

Was  never  seen  in  battle's  van. 
We  Moslem  reek  not  much  of  blood; 

But  yet  the  line  of  Carasman  * 
Unchanged,  unchangeable,  hath  stood 

First  of  the  bold  Timariot  bands 
That  won  and  well  can  keep  their  lands. 
Enough  that  he  who  comes  to  woo 
y  Is  kinsman  of  the  Bey  Oglou: 

His  years  need  scarce  a  thought  emnloy: 
I  would  not  have  thee  wed  a  boy. 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  noble  dower: 
And  his  and  my  united  power 
Will  laugh  to  scorn  the  death-firman, 
Which  others  tremble  but  to  scan, 
And  teach  the  messenger  what  fate 
The  bearer  of  such  boon  may  wait,  t 

comprehend  fully  what  is  feebly  expressed  in  the  above  line,  I  shall 
be  sorry  for  us  both.  For  an  eloquent  passage  in  the  latest  work  of 
the  first  female  writer  of  this,  perhaps  of  any  age,  on  the  analogy 
(and  the  immediate  comparison  excited  by  that  analogy)  between 
"painting  and  music,"  see  vol.  iii.  cap.  10.  "De  L'Allemagne."  And 
is  not  this  connection  still  stronger  with  the  original  than  the  copy? 
with  the  coloring  of  Nature  than  of  Art?  After  all,  this  is  rather  to 
be  felt  than  described;  still,  I  think  there  are  some  who  will  under- 
stand it,  at  least  they  would  have  done  had  they  beheld  the  counte- 
nance whoso  speaking  harmony  suggested  the  idea;  for  this  pas- 
sage is  notdrawn  from  imagination  but  memory,  that  mirror  which 
Affliction  dashes  to  the  earth,  and  looking  down  upon  the  frag- 
ments, only  beholds  the  reflection  multiplied! 

*  Carasman  Oglou,  or  Kara  Osman  Oglou,  is  the  principal  land- 
holder in  Turkey;  he  governs  Mag^iesia.  Those  who,  by  a  kind  of 
feudal  tenure,  possess  land  on  condition  of  service,  are  called  Timar- 
iots;  they  serve  as  Spahis,  according  to  the  extent  of  territorj',  and 
brin^  a  certain  number  into  the  field,  generally  cavalry. 

t  When  a  Pacha  is  sufficiently  strong  to  resist,  the  single  mes.«?en- 
ger,  who  is  always  the  first  bearer  of  the  orderfor  his  death,  is  stran- 
gled instead,  and  sometimes  five  or  six,  one  after  the  other,  on  the 
same  errand,  by  command  of  the  refractory  patient;  if,  on  the  con- 
trary, he  is  weak  or  loj'al,  he  bows,  kisses  the  Sultan's  respectable 
signature,  and  is  bowsf rung  with  great  complacency.  In  1810.  8ev- 
eral  of  "these  presents  "  were  exhibited  in  the  niche  of  the  Seraglio 
gate;  among  others,  the  head  of  the  Pacha  of  Bagdad,  a  brave 
young  man,  cut  off  by  treachery,  after  a  desperate  resistance. 


*ih 


THE  BRmE  OF  ABYDOS. 

And  now  thou  know'st  thy  father's  will; 

All  that  thy  sex  hath  need  to  know: 
'Twas  mine  to  teach  obedience  still — 

The  way  to  love,  thy  lord  may  show." 


'*^ 


105 


In  silence  bow'd  the  virgin's  head; 

And  if  her  eye  was  filrd  with  tears 
That  stifled  feeling  dare  not  shed, 
And  changed  her  cheek  from  pale  to  red, 

And  red  to  pale,  as  through  her  ears 
Those  winged  words  like  arrows  sped, 

What  could  such  be  but  maiden  fears? 
So  bright  the  tear  in  Beauty's  eye, 
Love  half  regrets  to  kiss  it  dry; 
So  sweet  the  blush  of  Bashfulness, 
Even  Pity  scarce  can  wish  it  less! 
Whate'er  it  was  the  sire  forgot; 
Or  if  remember'd,  mark'd  it  not; 
Thrice  clapp'd  his  hands,  and  call'd  his  steed,* 

Resign'd  his  gem-adom'd  chibouque,t 
And  mounting  leatly  for  the  mead, 

With  MaugrabeeJ  and  Mamaluke, 

His  way  amid  his  Delis  took,§ 
To  witness  many  an  active  deed 
With  sabre  keen,  or  blunt  jerreed. 
The  Kislar  only  and  his  Moors 
Watch  well  the  Harem's  massy  doors. 

IX. 

His  head  was  leant  upon  his  hand. 
His  eye  look'd  o'er  the  dark-blue  water 

That  swiftly  glides  and  gently  swells 

Between  the  winding  Dardanelles; 

But  yet  he  saw  nor  sea  nor  strand, 

Nor  even  his  Pacha's  turban'd  band 
Mix  in  the  game  of  mimic  slaughter,. 

Careering  cleave  the  folded  felt| 

With  sabre-stroke  right  sharply  dealt; 

Nor  mark'd  the  javelin-darting  crowd. 

Nor  heard  their  Ollahs  wild  and  loud— ^ 
He  thought  of  old  Giaffir's  daughter! 

*  Clapping  of  the  hands  calls  the  servants.  The  Turks  hate  a 
superfluous  expenditure  of  voice,  and  they  have  no  bells. 

T  "Chibouque,"  the  Turkish  pipe,  of  which  the  amber  mouthpiece, 
and  sometimes  the  ball  which  contains  the  leaf, -is  adorned  with 
precious  stones,  if  in  possession  of  the  wealthier  orders. 

t  **  Mauprabee,"  Moorish  mercenaries. 

§  "  Delis,"  bravoes  who  form  the  forlorn-hope  of  the  cavalry,  and 
always  begin  the  action. 

I  A  twisted  fold  otfelt  is  used  for  scimitar  practice  by  the  Turks, 
and  few  but  Mussulman  arms  can  cut  through  it  at  a  single  stroke: 
sometimes  a  tough  turban  is  used  for  the  same  purpose.  The  jer- 
reed is  a  game  of  blunt  javelins,  animated  and  graceful. 

1  "  Ollahs,"  Alia  il  Allah,  the  "Leilies,"  as  the  Spanish  poets  call 
them ;  the  sound  is  ODah ;  a  cry  of  which  the  Turks,  for  a  silent 
people,  are  somewhat  profuse,  particularly  during  the  jerreed,  or 
in  the  chase,  but  mostly  in  battle.  Their  animation  in  the  field,  and 
gravity  in  the  chamber,  with  their  pipes  and  comboloios,  form  an 
amusing  contrast. 


*♦ 

106  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  [canto  i. 


No  word  from  Selim's  bosom  broke; 
One  sigh  Zuleika's  thought  bespoke: 
Still  gazed  he  through  the  lattice  grate, 
Pale,  mute,  and  mournfully  sedate. 
To  him  Zuleika's  eye  was  tum'd. 
But  little  from  his  aspect  leam'd; 
Equal  her  grief,  yet  not  the  same: 
Her  heart  confess'd  a  gentler  flame: 
But  yet  that  heart,  alarm'd,  or  weak, 
She  knew  not  why,  forbade  to  speak. 
Yet  speak  she  must — but  when  essay? 
*'  How  strange  he  thus  should  turn  away  I 
Not  thus  we  e'er  before  have  met; 
Not  thus  shall  be  our  parting  yet." 
Thrice  paced  she  slowly  through  the  room, 

And  watch'd  his  eye— it  still  was  fix'd: 

She  snatch 'd  the  um  wherein  was  mix'd 
The  Persian  Atar-giil's  perfume,* 
And  sprinkled  all  its  odors  o'er 
The  pictured  roof  and  marble  floor:t 
The  drops,  that  through  his  glittering  vest 
The  playful  girl's  appeal  address'd, 
Unheeded  o'er  his  bosom  flew, 
As  if  that  breast  were  marble  too. 
*'  What,  sullen  yet?  it  must  not  be — 
Oh!  gentle  Selim,  this  from  thee!" 
She  saw  in  curious  order  set 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Eastern  land— 
"He  loved  them  once;  may  touch  them  yet 

If  offer'd  by  Zuleika's  hand." 
The  childish  thought  was  hardly  breathed 
Before  the  Rose  was  pluck'd  and  wreathed; 
The  next  fond  moment  saw  her  seat 
Her  fairy  form  at  Selim's  feet: 
"This  rose  to  calm  my  brother's  cares 
A  message  from  the  6ulbul  bears  ;| 
It  says  to-night  he  will  prolong 
For  Selim's  ear  his  sweetest  song; 
And  though  his  note  is  somewhat  sad, 
He'll  try  for  once  a  strain  more  glad. 
With  some  faint  hope  his  alter' d  lay 
May  sing  these  gloomy  thoughts  away. 

*  "Atar  pr61,"  ottar  of  roses.    The  Persian  is  the  finest. 

tThe  ceiling  and  wainscots,  or  rather  walls,  of  the  Mussulman 
apartments  are  generally  painted,  in  great  houses,  with  one  eternal 
and  highly-colored  view  of  Constantinople,  wherein  the  principal 
feature  is  a  noble  contempt  of  pei-spective ;  below,  amis,  scimitars, 
&c.,  are  in  general  fancifully  and  not  inelegantly  disix)sed. 

t  It  has  been  much  doubted  whether  the  notes  of  this  *'  Ix)ver  of 
the  rose  "  are  sad  or  merry;  and  Mr.  Fox's  remarks  on  tlie  subject 
have  provoked  some  learned  controversy  as  to  the  opinions  of  the 
ancients  on  the  subiect.  I  dare  not  venture  a  conjecture  on  the 
point,  though  a  little  inclined  to  the  "errare  mallem,"  &c.,  if  Mr. 
Fox  waa  mistaken. 


r 


ii- 


■Jf* 


CANTO  I.] 


THE  BKIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


107 


"  What!  not  receive  my  foolish  flower? 

Nay  then  I  am  indeed  unblest: 
On  me  can  thus  thy  forehead  lower? 

And  know'st  thou  not  who  loves  thee  best? 
Oh,  Selim  dear!  oh,  more  than  dearest! 
Say,  is  it  me  thou  hat'st  or  fearest? 
Come,  lay  thy  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  into  rest, 
Since  words  of  mine,  and  songs  must  fail 
E'en  from  my  fabled  nightingale- 
I  knew  our  sire  at  times  was  stem. 
But  this  from  thee  had  yet  to  learn: 
Too  well  I  know  he  loves  thee  not; 
But  is  Zuleika's  love  forgot? 
Ah!  deem  I  right?  the  Pacha's  plan — 
This  kinsman  Bey  of  Carasman 
Perhaps  may  prove  some  foe  of  thine: 
If  so,  I  swear  by  Mecca's  shrine. 
If  shrines  that  ne'er  approach  allow 
To  woman's  step  admit  her  vow. 
Without  thy  free  consent,  command. 
The  Sultan  should  not  have  my  hand! 
Thiuk'st  thou  that  I  could  bear  to  part 
With  thee,  and  learn  to  halve  my  heart? 
Ah!  were  I  sever' d  from  thy  side. 
Where  were  thy  friend— and  who  my  guide? 
Years  have  not  seen,  Time  shall  not  see 
The  hour  that  tears  my  soul  from  thee: 
Even  Azrael,*  from  his  deadly  quiver 

When  flies  that  shaft,  and  fly  it  must, 
That  parts  all  else,  shall  doom  for  ever 

Our  hearts  to  undivided  dust!" 


He  lived— he  breathed— he  moved— he  felt; 
He  raised  the  maid  from  where  she  knelt; 
His  trance  was  gone — his  keen  eye  shone 
With  thoughts  that  long  in  darkness  dwelt; 
With  thoughts  that  bum — in  rays  that  melt. 
As  the  stream  late  conceal'd 

By  the  fringe  of  its  willows, 
When  it  rushes  reveal'd 

In  the  light  of  its  billows; 
As  the  bolt  bursts  on  high 

From  the  black  cloud  that  bound  it, 
Flash'd  the  soul  of  that  eye 

Through  the  long  lashes  round  it. 
A  war-horse"  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
A  lion  roused  by  heedless  hound, 
A  tyrant  waked  to  sudden  strife 
By  graze  of  ill-directed  knife, 
Starts  not  to  more  convulsive  life 

♦  "Azrael,"  the  angel  of  death. 


** 


■ii* 


^ 

108  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  [casto  i. 

Than  he,  who  heard  that  vow,  display'd. 
And  all,  before  repress' d,  betxay'd: 

"  Now  thou  art  mine,  for  ever  mine, 
With  life  to  keep,  and  scarce  with  life  resign: 
Now  ihoa  art  mine,  that  sacred  oath, 
Thouffh  sworn  by  one,  hath  bound  us  both. 
Yes,  fondly,  wisely  Imst  thou  done; 
That  vow  hath  saved  more  heads  than  one: 
But  blench  not  thou — ^thy  simplest  tress 
Claims  more  from  me  than  tenderness; 
I  would  not  wrong  the  slenderest  hair 
That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
For  all  the  treasures  buried  far 
Within  the  caves  of  Istakar.* 
•This  morning  clouds  upon  me  lower'd. 
Reproaches  on  my  head  were  shower'd. 
And  GiafBr  almost  call'd  me  coward! 
Nov  I  have  motive  to  be  brave; 
The  son  of  his  neglected  slave — 
Nay,  start  not,  'twas  the  term  he  gave — 
May  show,  though  little  ^t  to  vaunt, 
A  heart  his  words  nor  deeds  can  daunt. 
Mis  son,  indeed!— yet,  thanks  to  thee, 
Perchance  I  am,  at  least  shall  be! 
But  Idt  our  plighted  secret  vow 
Be  OTily  known  to  us  as  now. 
I  know  the  wretch  who  dares  demand 
FrcHn  Giaffir  thy  reluctant  band; 
McHne  ill-got  w«dth,  a  meaner  soul 
Holds  not  a  Mussel im*s  control:! 
Was  he  not  bred  in  Egripo?t 
A  viler  race  lest  Israel  show! 
But  let  that  pass — ^to  none  be  fold 
'  Our  oath;  the  rest  let  time  unfold. 

To  me  and  mine  leave  Osman  Bey; 
I've  partisans  for  periPs  day: 
Think  not  I  am  what  I  appear; 
I've  arms,  and  friends,  and  vengeance  near.'* 


'*  Think  not  thou  art  what  thou  appearest! 

My  Selim,  thou  art  sadly  changed: 
This  mom  I  saw  thee  gentlest,  dearest; 

But  now  thou'rt  from  thyself  estranged. 
My  love  thou  surely  knew'st  before, 
It  ne*er  was  less,  nor  can  be  more. 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  near  thee  stay. 

And  hate  the  night,  I  know  not  why, 
gave  that  we  meet  not  but  by  day; 

*  The  treasures  of  the  pre  Adamite  Sultans,  See  Dllerbelot,  arti- 
cle Jstakar, 

i  "  Musselim,"  a  p:ovemor,  the?  next  in  rank  after  a  Pacha;  a  Way- 
wode  is  the  third ;  and  tht'n  come  the  Agas. 

\  '■'^Egriix) " — the  Negnjpont.  Accorrfing-to  the  proverb,  the  Turks 
of  Egripo,  the  Jews  of  Salonica,  and  the  Greekaof  Alhens,  are  the 
worst  of  their  respective  races. 

-•-ft tt-^ 


ih 


•CASTO  I.]  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS. 

With  thee  to  live,  with  thee  to  die, 

I  dare  not  to  my  hope  deny: 
Thy  cheek,  thine  eyes,  thy  lips  to  kiss, 
Like  this — and  this— no  more  than  this; 
For,  Allah  1  sure  thy  lips  are  flame: 

What  fever  in  thy  veins  is  flushingi 
My  own  have  nearly  caught  the  same, 

At  least  I  feel  my  cheek  too  blushing. 
To  soothe  thy  sickness,  watch  thy  health, 
Partake,  but  never  waste  thy  wealth, 
Or  stand  with  smiles  unmurmuring  by, 
And  lighten  half  thy  poverty; 
Do  all  but  close  thy  dying  eye. 
For  that  I  could  not  live  to  try; 
To  these  alone  my  thoughts  aspire: 
More  can  I  do?  or  thou  require? 
But,  Selim,  thou  must  answer  why 
We  need  so  much  of  mystery? 
The  cause  I  cannot  dream  nor  tell,    - 
But  be  it,  since  thou  say'st  'tis  well; 
Yet  what  thou  mean'st  by  *  arms '  and  *  friends. 
Beyond  my  weaker  sense  extends. 
I  meant  that  Giaffir  should  have  heard 

The  very  vow  I  plighted  thee; 
His  wrath  would  not  revoke  my  word: 

But  surely  he  would  leave  me  free. 

Can  this  fond  wish  seem  strange  in  me. 
To  be  what  I  have  ever  been? 
What  other  hath  Zuleika  seen 
From  simple  childhood's  earliest  hour? 

What  other  can  she  seek  to  see 
Than  thee,  companion  of  her  bower, 

The  partner  of  her  infancy? 
These  cherish'd  thoughts  with  life  begun, 

Say,  why  must  I  no  more  avow? 
What  change  is  wrought  to  make  me  shun 

The  truth;  my  pride,  and  thine  till  now? 
To  meet  the  gaze  of  stranger's  eyes 
Our  law,  our  creed,  our  God  denies: 
Nor  shall  one  wandering  thought  of  mine 

At  such,  our  Prophet's  will,  repine: 
No!  happier  made  by  that  decree! 
He  left  me  all  in  leaving  thee. 
Deep  were  my  anguish,  thus  compeli'd 
To  wed  with  one  I  ne'er  beheld: 
This  wherefore  should  I  not  reveal? 
Why  wilt  thou  urge  me  to  conceal? 
I  know  the  Pacha  s  haughty  mood 
To  thee  hath  never  boded  good: 
And  he  so  often  storms  at  nought, 
Allah!  forbtd  that  e'er  he  ought! 
And  why  I  know  not,  but  within 
My  heart  concealment  weighs  like  Bin. 
If,  then,  such  secrecy  be  crime. 

And  such  it  feels  while  lurking  here, 
Oh,  Selim!  tell  me  yet  in  time 

Nor  leave  me  thus  to  thoughts  of  fear. 


109 


Ht 


110  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS.  fCAMTo  u. 

Ah!  yonder  see  the  Tchocadar,* 
My  father  leaves  the  mimic  war; 
I  tremble  now  to  meet  his  eye — 
Say,  Selim,  canst  thou  tell  me  why?" 

XIV. 

"  Zuleika— to  thy  tower's  retreat 

Betake  thee — GiaflBr  I  can  greet: 

And  now  with  him  I  fain  must  prate 

Of  firmans,  imposts,  levies,  state. 

There  's  fearful  news  from  Danube's  banks, 

Our  Vizier  nobly  thins  his  ranks, 

For  which  the  Giaour  may  give  him  thanks  1 

Our  Sultan  hath  a  shorter  way 

Such  costly  triumph  to  repay. 

But,  mark  me,  when  the  twilight  drum 

Hath  wam'd  the  troops  to  food  and  sleep, 
Unto  thy  cell  will  Selim  come: 

Then  softly  from  the  Harem  creep 

Where  we  may  wander  by  the  deep: 

Our  garden-battlements  are  steep; 
Nor  these  will  rash  intruder  climb 
To  list  our  words,  or  stint  our  time; 
And  if  he  doth,  I  want  not  steel 
Which  some  have  felt,  and  more  may  feeL 
Then  shalt  thou  learn  of  Selim  more 
Than  thou  hast  heard  or  thought  before: 
Trust  me,  Zuleika— fear  not  me! 
Thou  know' St  I  hold  a  Harem  key." 

"Fear  thee,  my  Selim!  ne'er  till  now 
Did  word  like  this — " 

"  Delay  not  thou; 
I  keep  the  key — and  Haroun's  guard 
Have  some,  and  hope  of  rtuyre  reward. 
To-night,  Zuleika,  thou  shalt  hear 
My  tale,  my  purpose,  and  my  fear: 
I  am  not,  love!  what  I  appear." 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 
I. 
The  winds  are  high  on  Helle's  wave, 

As  on  that  night  of  stormy  water. 
When  Love,  who  sent,  forgot  to  save 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  lonely  hope  of  Sestos'  daughter. 
Oh!  when  alone  along  the  sky 
Her  turret-torch  was  blazing  high. 
Though  rising  gale,  and  breaking  foam. 
And  shrieking  sea-birds  wam'd  him  home; 
And  clouds  aloft  and  tides  below. 
With  signs  and  sounds,  forbade  to  go, 
He  could  not  see,  he  would  not  hear, 
Or  sound  or  sign  foreboding  fear; 

*"Tchocadar,"  one  of  the  attendants  who  precedes  a  man  of 
authority. 


-It 


■If 


CANTO  U.J  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS. 

His  eye  but  saw  the  light  of  love, 

The  only  star  it  hail'd  above; 

His  ear  but  ran^  with  Hero's  song, 

"  Ye  waves,  divide  not  lovers  long!" — 

That  tale  is  old,  but  love  anew 

May  nerve  young  hearts  to  prove  as  true. 

II. 

The  winds  are  high  and  Helle's  tide 
Rolls  darkly  heaving  to  the  main; 
And  Night's  descending  shadows  hide 

That  held  with  blood  bedew'd  in  vain, 
The  desert  of  old  Priam's  pride; 
The  tombs,  sole  relics  of  his  reign, 
All — save  immortal  dreams  that  could  beguile 
The  blind  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  islel 

III. 
Oh!  yet — for  there  my  steps  have  been! 

These  feet- have  press' d  the  sacred  shore. 
These  limbs  that  buoyant  wave  hath  borne — 
Minstrel!  with  thee  to  muse,  to  mourn, 

To  trace  again  those  fields  of  yore, 
Believing  every  hillock  green 

Contains  no  fabled  hero's  ashes. 
And  that  around  the  undoubted  scene 

Thine  own  "  broad  Hellespont "  still  dashes,* 
Be  long  my  lot!  and  cold  were  he 
Who  there  could  gaze  denying  thee! 


Ill 


The  night  hath  closed  on  Helle's  stream, 

Nor  yet  hath  risen  on  Ida's  hill 
That  moon,  which  shone  on  his  high  theme: 
No  warrior  chides  her  peaceful  beam, 

But  concious  shepherds  bless  it  still. 
Their  flocks  are  grazing  on  the  mound 

Of  him  who  felt  the  Dardan's  arrow; 
That  mighty  heap  of  gather'd  ground 
Which  Ammon's  son  ran  proudly  round,t 
By  nations  raised,  by  monarchs  crown'd, 

♦  The  wrangling  about  this  epithet,  "  the  broad  Hellespont,"  or  the 
"  boundless  Hellespont,"  whether  it  means  one  or  the  other,  or  what 
it  means  at  all,  has  been  beyond  all  possibility  of  detail.  I  have 
even  heard  it  disputed  on  the  spot;  and  not  foreseeing  a  speedy  con- 
clusion to  the  controversy,  amused  myself  with  swimming  across  it 
in  the  meantime,  and  probably  may  again,  before  the  point  is 
settled.  Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  truth  of  "the  tale  of  Troy 
divine  "  ptill  contiriues,  much  of  it  resting  upon  the  talismanic  word 
O7r«ipo«;  probably  Homer  had  the  same  notion  of  distance  that  a 
coquette  has  of  time,  and  when  he  talks  of  boundless,  means  half  a 
mile;  as  the  latter,  by  a  like  figure,  when  she  says  eternal  attachment 
simply  specifies  three  weeks. 

t  Before  his  Persian  invasion,  and  crowned  the  altar  with  laurel, 
&c.  He  was  afterwards  imitated  by  Caracalla  in  his  race.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  the  last  also  poisoned  a  friend,  named  Festus,  for  the 
sake  of  new  Patroclan  games.  I  have  seen  the  sheep  feeding  on  the 
tombs  of  ^sietes  and  Autilochus:  the  first  is  iu  the  centre  of  thu 
plain.  ^ 


112  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS.  [canto  n. 

Is  now  a  lone  and  nameless  barrow. 

Within — ^thy  dwelling-place  how  narrow! 
Without — can  only  strangers  breathe 
The  name  of  him  that  was  beneath: 
Dust  long  outlasts  the  storied  stone; 
But  Thou — thy  very  dust  is  gone! 

V. 

Late,  late  to-night  will  Dian  cheer 

The  swain,  and  chase  the  boatman's  fear; 

Till  then — no  beacon  on  the  cliff 

May  shape  the  course  of  struggling  skiff; 

The  scatter' d  lights  that  skirt  the  bay. 

All,  one  by  one,  have  died  away; 

The  only  lamp  of  this  lone  hour 

Is  glimmering  in  Zuleika's  tower. 

Yes!  there  is  light  in  that  lone  chamber, 

And  o'er  her  silken  ottoman 
Are  thrown  the  fragrant  beads  of  amber, 

O'er  which  her  fairy  fingers  ran;* 
Near  these,  with  emerald  rays  beset, 
(How  could  she  thus  that  gem  forget?) 
Her  mother's  sainted  amuiet,t 
Whereon  engraved  the  Koorsee  text, 
Could  smootn  this  life,  and  win  the  next; 
And  by  her  Comboloio  liesj 
A  Koran  of  illumined  dyes; 
And  many  a  bright  emblazon'd  rhyme 
By  Persian  scribes  redeem'd  from  time; 
And  o'er  those  scrolls,  not  oft  so  mute. 
Reclines  her  now  neglected  lute; 
And  round  her  lamp  of  fretted  gold 
Bloom  flowers  in  urns  of  China's  mould; 
The  richest  work  of  Iran's  loom, 
And  Sheeraz'  tribute  of  perfume; 
All  that  can  eye  or  sense  delight 

Are  gather'd  in  that  gorgeous  room: 

But  yet  it  hath  an  air  of  gloom. 
She,  of  this  Peri  cell  the  sprite. 
What  doth  she  hence,  and  on  so  rude  a  night? 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  the  darkest  sable  vest. 
Which  none  save  noblest  Moslem  wear, 

♦  When  rubbed,  the  amber  is  susceptible  of  a  perfume,  which  is 
slight,  but  not  disasrreeable. 

t  The  belief  in  amulets  engraved  on  gems,  or  enclosed  in  gold 
boxes,  containing  scraps  from  the  Koran. wore  round  the  neck,  wrist, 
or  artn,  is  still  universal  in  the  East.  The  Koorsee  (throne)  vers.'  in 
the  second  chapter  of  the  Koran  describes  the  attributes  of  the  Most 
High,  and  is  engraved  in  this  manner,  and  worn  by  the  pious,  as  the 
most  esteemed  and  sublime  of  all  sentences. 

$  "Comboloio."  a  Turkish  rosary.  The  MRS.,  particularly  those 
of  the  Persians,  are  richly  adorned  and  illuminated.  The  Greek 
females  are  kept  in  utter  ignorance;  but  many  of -the  Turkish  girls 
are  highly  acconiplished,  though  not  actually  qualified  for  a  Chris- 
tian coterie.  Perhaps  some  of  our  own"6Zue«'*  might  not  be  the 
wor#b  for  blecuihifig. 


^K 


-HF 


CANTO  II.] 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


To  ^ard  from  winds  of  heaven  the  breast 
As  heaven  itself  to  Selim  dear, 

With  cautious  steps  the  thicket  threadinj^, 
And  starting  oft,  as  through  the  glade 
The  gust  its  hollow  moanings  made; 

Till  on  the  smoother  pathM'^ay  treading. 

More  free  her  timid  bosom  beat, 
The  maid  pursued  her  silent  guide; 

And  though  her  terror  urged  retreat, 
How  could  she  quit  her  Selim's  side? 
How  teach  her  tender  lips  to  chide? 


^h^ 


118 


They  reaeh'd  at  length  a  grotto,  hewn 

By  nature,  but  enlarged  by  art. 
Where  oft  her  lute  she  wont  to  tune, 

And  oft  her  Koran  conn'd  apart: 
And  oft  in  youthful  reverie 
She  dream'd  what  Paradise  might  be; 
Where  woman's  parted  soul  shall  go 
Her  Prophet  had  disdain'd  to  show; 
But  Selim's  mansion  was  secure. 
Nor  deem'd  she,  could  he  long  endure 
His  bower  in  other  worlds  of  bliss, 
Without  her,  most  beloved  in  this! 
Oh!  who  so  dear  with  him  could  dwell? 
What  Houri  soothe  him  half  so  well? 

VIII. 

Since  last  she  visited  the  spot 

Some  change  seem'd  wrought  within  the  grot; 

It  might  be  only  that  the  night 

Disguised  things  seen  by  better  light: 

That  brazen  lamp  but  dimly  threw 

A  ray  of  no  celestial  hue: 

But  in  a  nook  within  the  cell 

Her  eye  on  stranger  objects  fell. 

There  arms  were  piled,  not  such  as  wield 

The  turban'd  Delis  in  the  field; 

But  brands  of  foreign  blade  and  hilt, 

And  one  was  red — perchance  with  guiltl 

Ah!  how  without  can  blood  be  spilt? 

A  cup  too  on  the  board  was  set 

That  did  not  seem  to  hold  sherbet. 

What  may  this  mean?  she  tum'd  to  see — 

Her  Selim—"  Oh!  can  this  be  he?" 

IX. 

His  robe  of  pride  was  thrown  aside. 
His  brow  no  high-crown'd  turban  bore, 

But  In  its  stead  a  shawl  of  red, 
Wreathed  lightly  round,  his  temples  wore: 

That  dagger,  on  whose  hilt  the  gem 

Were  worthy  of  a  diadem. 

No  longer  glitter'd  at  his  waist, 

Where  pistols  unadom'd  were  braced; 


-IK 


lU  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  tCAiiTO  n. 

And  from  his  belt  a  sabre  swung, 

And  from  his  shoulder  looselj'  hung 

The  cloak  of  white,  the  thin  capote 

That  decks  the  wandering  Candiote: 

Beneath — his  golden  plated  vest 

Clung  like  a  cuirass  to  his  breast; 

The  greaves  below  his  knee  that  wound 

With  silvery  scales  were  sheathed  and  bound. 

But  were  it  not  that  high  command 

Spake  in  his  eye,  and  tone,  and  hand, 

All  that  a  careless  eye  could  see 

In  him  was  some  young  Galiong6e.* 

X. 

**  I  said  I  was  not  what  I  seem'd; 

And  now  thou  see'st  my  words  were  tme: 
I  have  a  tale  thou  hast  not  dream'd. 

If  sooth — ^its  truth  must  others  rue. 
My  story  now  'twere  vain  to  hide, 
I  must  not  see  thee  Osman's  bride: 
But  had  not  thine  own  lips  declared 
How  much  of  that  young  heart  I  shared, 
I  could  not,  must  not,  yet  have  shown 
The  darker  secret  of  my  own. 
In  this  I  speak  not  now  of  love; 
That,  let  time,  truth,  and  peril  prove: 
But  first — oh!  never  wed  another — 
Zuleikal  I  am  not  thy  brotherl" 


**  Oh!  not  my  brother] — yet  unsay — 

God!  am  I  left  alone  on  earth 
To  mourn — I  dare  not  curse — the  day 

That  saw  my  solitary  birth? 
Oh!  thou  wilt  love  me  now  no  more! 

My  sinking  heart  foreboded  ill; 
But  know  me  all  I  was  before. 

Thy  sister — friend — Zuleika  still. 
Thou  ledd'st  me  here  perchance  to  kill; 

If  thou  hast  cause  for  vengeance,  see 
My  breast  is  offer' d — take  thy  fiUl 

Far  better  with  the  dead  to  be 

Thau  live  thus  nothing  now  to  thee; 
Perhaps  far  worse,  for  now  I  know 
Why  Giaffir  always  seem'd  thy  foe: 
And  I,  alas!  am  Oriaffir's  child. 
For  whom  thou  wert  contemn  d,  reviled. 
If  not  thy  sister — wouldst  thou  save 
My  life,  oh!  bid  me  be  thy  slave!" 

♦  **GalIong6e,"  or  GalioriRi.  a  sailor,  that  is,  a  Turkish  sailor;  the 
Greeks  iiavi;jjate,  the  Turks  work  the  guns.  Their  dress  is  pictur- 
esque; and  I  have  seen  the  Capifan  Tneha  more  than  once  wearing 
it  a.s  a  kind  of  incog.  Their  legs,  however,  are  generally  nuked. 
The  buskins  drseribed  in  the  text  as  sheathed  behind  with  silver 
are  those  of  an  Arnaut  robber,  who  was  my  host  (he  had  quitted  tlie 
profession)  at  his  Pyrgo,  near  Gastounl  in  the  Morea;  they  were 
plated  in  scales  one  over  the  other,  like  the  back  of  an  armadillo. 

*« *♦ 


n 


CANTO  II.] 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTD08. 


115 


"  My  slave,  Zuleika!— nay,  I'm  thine: 

But,  gentle  love,  this  transport  calm, 
Thy  lot  shall  yet  be  link'd  with  mine; 
I  swear  it  by  our  Prophet's  shrine. 

And  be  that  thought  thy  sorrow's  balm. 
So  may  the  Koran  verse  display'd  * 
Upon  its  steel  direct  my  blade, 
In  danger's  hour  to  guard  us  both, 
As  I  preserve  that  awful  oath! 
The  name  in  which  thy  heart  hath  prided 

Must  change;  but,  my  Zuleika,  know, 
That  tie  is  widen'd,  not  divided. 

Although  thy  Sire  's  my  deadliest  foe. 
My  father  was  to  Giafl5r  all 

That  Selim  late  was  deem'd  to  thee; 
That  brother  wrought  a  brother's  fall, 

But  spared,  at  least,  my  infancy; 
And  lull'd  me  with  a  vain  deceit 
That  yet  a  like  return  may  meet. 
He  rear'd  me,  not  with  tender  help, 

But  like  the  nephew  of  a  Cain;  t 
He  watch'd  me  like  a  lion's  whelp. 

That  gnaws  and  yet  may  break  his  chain. 

My  father's  blood  in  every  vein 
Is  boiling;  but  for  thy  dear  sake 
No  present  vengeance  will  I  take; 

Though  here  I  must  no  more  remain. 
But  first,  beloved  Zuleika!  hear 
How  Giaffir  wrought  this  deed  of  fear. 


"  How  first  their  strife  to  rancor  grew. 

If  love  or  envy  made  them  foes, 
It  matters  little  if  I  knew; 
In  fiery  spirits,  slights,  though  few 

And  thoughtless,  will  disturb  repose. 
In  war  Abdallah's  arm  was  strong, 
Remember' d  yet  in  Bosniac  song, 

♦  The  characters  on  all  Turkish  scimitars  contain  sometimes  the 
name  of  the  place  of  their  manufacture,  but  more  generally  a  text 
from  the  Koran,  in  letters  of  gold.  Amongst  those  m  my  possession 
is  one  with  a  blade  of  singular  construction;  it  is  very  broad,  and 
the  edge  notched  into  sei-pentine  curves  like  the  ripple  of  water,  or 
the  wavering  of  flame.  I  asked  the  Armenian  who  sold  it  what  pos- 
sible use  such  a  figure  could  add:  he  said,  in  Italian,  that  ho  did  not 
know;  but  the  Mussulmans  had  an  idea  that  those  of  this  form  gave 
a  severer  wonnd;  andliked  it  because  it  was  "piu  feroce."  I  did 
not  much  admire  the  reason,  but  bought  it  for  its  peculiarity. 

t  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  eveiy  allusion  to  any  thing  or  personage 
in  the  Old  Testament,  such  as  the  Ark,  or  Cain,  is  equally  the  privi- 
lege of  Mussulman  and  Jew:  Indeed,  the  former  profess  to  be  nmch 
better  acquainted  with  the  lives,  true  and  fabulous,  of  the 
patriarchs,  than  is  warranted  by  our  own  sacred  writ;  aud  not  con- 
tent with  Adam,  they  have  a  biography  of  pre-Adamites.  Solomon 
is  the  monarch  of  all  necromancy,  and  Moses  a  pro|:)het  inferior 
only  to  Christ  and  Mohammed.  Zuleika  is  the  Persian  name  of 
Potiphar's  wife;  and  her  amour  with  Joseph  constitutes  one  of  the 
finest  poems  in  their  language.  It  is,  therefore,  no  violation  of  cos- 
tume to  piit  the  names  of  Cam,  or  Noah,  into  the  mouth  of  a  Moslem. 


■IK 


* 

110  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  [cauto  ir. 

And  Pas  wan' 8  rebel  hordes  attest* 

How  little  love  they  bore  such  guest: 

His  death  Is  all  I  need  relate, 

The  stem  effect  of  Giaffirs  hate; 

And  how  my  birth  disclosed  to  me, 

Whate'er  beside  it  makes,  hath  made  me  free. 

XIV. 

"  When  Paswan,  after  years  of  strife, 
At  last  for  power,  but  first  for  life, 
In  Widdin's  walls  too  proudly  sate, 
Our  Pachas  rallied  round  the  state; 
Nor  last  nor  least  in  high  command. 
Each  brother  led  a  separate  band; 
They  gave  their  horse-tails  to  the  wlnd,t 

And  mustering  in  Sophia's  plain 
Their  tents  were  pitch'd,  their  posts  assign'd: 

To  one,  alas!  assign'd  in  vain! 
"What  need  of  words?  the  deadly  bowl, 

By  Giaffir's  order  drugg'd  and  given, 
With  venom  subtle  as  his  soul, 

Dismiss'd  Abdallah's  hence  to  heaven. 
Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath. 

He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  up, 
But  little  deem'd  a  brother's  wrath 

To  quench  his  thirst  had  such  a  cup: 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore; 
He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more!  t 
If  thou  my  tale,  Zmeika,  doubt, 
Call  Haroun — he  can  tell  it  out. 

XV. 

"  The  deed  once  done,  and  Paswan's  feud 
In  part  suppress 'd,  though  ne'er  subdued, 

Abdallah's  Pachalic  was  gain'd: — 
Thou  know'st  not  what  in  our  Divan 
Can  wealth  procure  for  worse  than  man — 

Abdallah's  honors  were  obtaln'd 
By  him  a  brother's  murder  staln'd; 
'Tis  true,  the  purchase  nearly  drain'd 
His  ill-got  treasure,  soon  replaced. 
Wouldst  question  whence?    Survey  the  vraste, 
And  ask  the  squalid  peasant  how 
His  gains  repay  his  broiling  brow! — 
Why  me  the  stem  usurper  spared, 
Why  thus  with  me  his  palace  shared, 
I  know  not.     Shame,  regret,  remorse, 
And  little  fear  from  Infant's  force; 

•  Paswan  Oplou,  the  rebel  of  Widdin ;  who,  for  th©  last  jears  of 
his  life,  set  the  whole  power  of  the  Porte  at  defiance. 

t  "Horse-tail,"  the  standard  of  a  Pacha. 

i  Giafllr,  Pacha  of  Arpryro  Castro,  or  Scutari.  I  am  not  sure  which, 
was  actually  taken  off  by  tho  Albanian  Ali.  in  the  manner  described 
in  the  text.  Ali  Pacha,  while  I  was  in  tho  country,  nmrried  tho 
daughter  of  his  victim,  some  years  after  tho  event  ha'cl  taken  place 
at  a  bath  in  Sophia,  or  Adrianople.  The  poison  was  mixed  m  tho 
cup  of  coffee  which  is  presented  before  the  sherbet  by  tho  bath* 
keeper,  after  dressing. 


CANTO  11.]  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS. 

Besides,  adoption  as  a  son 
By  him  whom  Heaven  accorded  none, 
Or  some  unknown  cabal,  caprice, 
Preserved  me  thus;  but  not  in  peace: 
He  cannot  curb  his  haughty  mood, 
Nor  I  forgive  a  father's  blood! 


117 


"  "Within  thy  father's  house  are  foes; 

Not  all  who  break  his  bread  are  true: 
To  these  should  I  my  birth  disclose, 

His  days,  his  very  hours,  were  few: 
They  only  want  a  heart  to  lead, 
A  hand  to  point  them  to  the  deed. 
But  Haroun  only  knows — or  knew — 

This  tale,  whose  close  is  almost  nigh: 
He  in  Abdallah's  palace  grew, 

And  held  that  post  in  his  Serai 

Which  he  holds  here— he  saw  him  die: 
But  what  could  single  slavery  do? 
Avenge  his  lord?  alas!  too  late; 
Or  save  his  son  from  such  a  fate? 
He  chose  the  last,  and  when  elate 
With  foes  subdued,  or  friends  betray'd, 
Proud  GiafBr  in  high  triumph  sate, 
He  led  me  helpless  to  his  gate, 

And  not  in  vain  it  seems  essay'd 

To  save  the  life  for  which  he  pray'd. 
The  knowledge  of  my  birth  secured 

From  all  and  each,  but  most  from  me; 
Thus  Giaflar's  safety  was  insured. 

Removed  he  too  from  Roumelie 
To  this  our  Asiatic  side. 
Far  from  our  seats  by  Danube's  tide, 

With  none  but  Haroun,  who  retains 
Such  knowledge— and  that  Nubian  feels 

A  tyrant's  secrets  are  but  chains. 
From  which  the  captive  gladly  steals, 
And  this  and  more  to  me  reveals: 
Such  still  to  guilt  just  Allah  sends — 
Slaves,  tools,  accomplices— no  friends  I 


**  All  this,  Zuleika,  harshly  sounds; 

But  harsher  still  my  tale  must  be: 
Howe'er  my  tongue  thy  softness  wounda, 

Yet  1  must  prove  all  truth  to  thee. 

I  saw  thee  start  this  garb  to  see, 
Tet  is  it  one  I  oft  have  worn. 

And  long  must  wear:  this  Galiong^e, 
To  whom  thy  plighted  vow  is  sworn, 

Is  leader  of  those  pirate  hordes. 

Whose  laws  and  lives  are  on  their  swords; 
To  hear  whose  desolating  tale 
Would  makie  thy  waning  cheek  more  pale: 


** 


^K 


us 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYD08. 


[CAWTO  II. 


Those  arms  thou  see'st  my  band  have  brought, 
The  hands  that  wield  are  not  remote; 
This  cup  too  for  the  rugged  knaves 

Is  fill'd — once  quaJEE'a,  they  ne^er  repine: 
Our  Prophet  might  forgive  the  slaves; 

They're  only  infidels  in  wine! 


"  What  could  I  be?    Proscribed  at  home, 
And  taunted  to  a  wish  to  roam; 
And  listless  left — for  GiaflBr's  fear 
Denied  the  courser  and  the  spear — 
Though  oft — oh,  Mohammed!  how  oft! — 
In  full  Divan  the  despot  scofl'd, 
As  if  my  weak  unwilling  hand 
Refused  the  bridle  or  the  brand: 
He  ever  went  to  war  alone, 
Andpent  me  here  untried — unknown; 
To  Haroun's  care  with  women  left, 
By  hope  unblest,  of  fame  bereft. 
While  thou — whose  softness  long  endear'd, 
Though  it  unmann'd  me,  still  had  cheer'd — 
To  Brusa's  walls  for  safety  sent, 
Awaitedst  there  the  field's  event. 
Haroun,  who  saw  my  spirit  pining 

Beneath  inaction's  sluggish  yoke, 
His  captive,  though  with  dread,  resigning, 

My  thraldom  for  a  season  broke, 
On  promise  to  return  before 
The  day  when  GiaflBr's  charge  was  o'er. 
'Tis  vain — my  tongue  cannot  impart 
My  almost  drunkenness  of  heart. 
When  first  this  liberated  eye 
Survey'd  Earth,  Ocean,  Sun,  and  Sky, 
As  if  my  spirit  pierced  them  through. 
And  all  their  inmost  wonders  knewl 
One  word  alone  can  paint  to  thee 
That  more  than  feeling — I  was  Free! 
E'en  for  thy  presence  ceased  to  pine; 
The  World— nay— Heaven  itself  was  mlnet 


XIX. 

"  The  shallop  of  a  trusty  Moor 
Convey'd  me  from  this  idle  shore; 
I  long'd  to  see  the  isles  that  gem 
Old  Ocean's  purple  diadem: 
I  sought  by  turns,  and  saw  them  all:* 

But  when  and  where  I  join'd  the  crew, 
With  whom  I'm  pledged  to  rise  or  fall. 

When  all  that  we  design  to  do 
Is  done,  'twill  then  be  1  ime  more  meet 
To  tell  thee,  when  the  tale  'a  complete. 

*  The  Turkish  notions  of  almost  all  islands  are  confined  to  the 
Archipelago,  the  sea  alluded  to. 


♦* 


t 


-4 


CA.NTO  II.] 


4k 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


119 


"  'Tis  true,  they  are  a  lawless  brood, 
But  rough  in  form,  nor  mild  in  mood; 
And  eve^y  creed,  and  every  race. 
With  them  hath  found — may  find — a  place: 
But  open  speech,  and  ready  hand. 
Obedience  to  their  chief's  command; 
A  soul  for  every  enterprise, 
That  never  sees  with  ten-or's  eyes; 
Friendship  for  each,  and  faith  to  all, 
And  vengeance  vow'd  for  those  who  fall, 
Have  made  them  fitting  instruments 
For  more  than  e'en  my  own  intents. 
And  some — and  I  have  studied  all 

Distinguished  from  the  vulgar  rank, 
But  chiefly  to  my  council  call 

The  wisdom  of  the  cautious  Frank — 
And  some  to  higher  thoughts  aspire; 
The  last  of  Lambro's  patriots  there* 
Anticipated  freedom  share; 
And  oft  around  the  cavern-fire 
On  visionary  schemes  debate. 
To  snatch  the  Rayahs  from  their  fate.t 
So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  man  ne'er  knew; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 
Ayl  let  me  like  the  ocean-Patriarch  roam.J 
Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home!§ 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 
Are  more  than  cities  and  serais  to  me: 
BoiTie  by  my  steed,  or  wafted  by  my  sail. 
Across  the  desert,  or  before  the  gale, 
Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb!  or  glide,  my  prow! 
But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer.  Thou! 
Thou,  my  Zuleika!  share  and  bless  my  bark; 
The  Dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  I 
Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life! 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  cloud  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray! 
Blest — as  the  Muezzin's  strain  from  Mecca's  wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call; 
Soft — as  the  melody  of  youthful  days. 
That  steals  the  trembling  tear  of  speechless  praise; 

*  Lambro  Canzani,  a  Greek,  famous  for  his  efforts  in  1789-90,  for 
the  indepetidenco  of  his  country.  Abandoned  by  the  Russians,  he 
became  a  pirate,  and  the  Archipelago  was  the  scene  of  his  enter- 
prises. He  is  said  to  be  still  alive  at  St.  Petersburg.  He  and  Riga 
are  the  two  most  celebrated  of  the  Greek  revolutionists. 

t  "Rayahs,"  all  who  pay  the  capitation  tax,  called  the  "Haratch." 

t  This  first  of  voyages  is  one  of  the  few  with  which  the  Mussul- 
mans profess  much  acquaintance. 

§  The  wandering  life  of  the  Arabs,  Tartars,  and  Turkomans,  will 
be  found  well  detailed  in  any  book  of  Eastern  travels.  That  it  pos- 
sesses a  charm  peculiar  to  itself,  cannot  be  denied,  A  young  French 
renegado  confessed  to  Chateaubriand  that  he  never  found  himself 
alone,  galloping  in  the  desert,  without  a  sensation  approaching  to 
rapture  which  was  indescribable. 


** 


r 


120  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTD08.  [canto  il. 

Dear — as  his  native  sonff  to  exile's  ears, 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 

For  thee  in  those  bright  isles  is  built  a  bower 

Blooming  as  Aden  in  its  earliest  hour.* 

A  thousand  swords,  with  Selim's  heart  and  hand, 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at  thy  command! 

Girt  by  my  band,  Zuleika  at  my  side, 

The  spoil  of  nations  shall  bedeck  my  bride. 

The  Harem's  languid  years  of  listless  ease 

Are  well  resign'd  for  cares — for  jovs  like  these: 

Not  blind  to  fate,  I  see,  where'er  1  rove, 

TJnnumber'd  perils — but  one  only  love! 

Yet  well  my  toils  shall  that  fond  breast  repay, 

Though  fortune  frown  or  falser  friends  betray. 

How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill. 

Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still! 

Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown; 

To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own; 

To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 

Blend  every  thought,  do  all — but  disunite  1 

Once  free,  'tis  mine  our  horde  again  to  guide; 

Friends  to  each  other,  foes  to  all  beside: 

Yet  there  we  follow  but  the  bent  assign'd 

By  fatal- Nature  to  man's  warring  kind: 

Mark!  where  his  carnage  and  his  conquests  cease! 

He  makes  a  solitude,  and  calls  it — peace! 

I  like  the  rest  must  use  my  skill  or  strength, 

But  ask  no  land  beyond  my  sabre's  length: 

Power  sways  but  by  division — her  resource 

The  blest  alternative  of  fraud  or  force! 

Ours  be  the  last;  in  time  deceit  may  come 

When  cities  cage  us  in  a  social  home: 

There  e'en  thy  soul  might  err — how  oft  the  heart 

Corruption  shakes  which  peril  could  not  part ! 

And  woman,  more  than  man,  when  death  or  woe, 

Or  even  disgrace,  would  lay  her  lover  low, 

Sunk  in  the  lap  of  luxury  will  shame — 

Away  suspicion! — not  Zuleika's  name! 

But  life  is  hazard  at  the  best;  and  here 

No  more  remains  to  win,  and  much  to  fear: 

Yes,  fear! — the  doubt,  the  dread  of  losing  thee, 

By  Osman's  power,  and  Giafflr's  stem  decree. 

That  dread  shall  vanish  with  the  favoring  gale. 

Which  Love  to-night  hath  promised  to  my  sail: 

No  danger  daunts  the  pair  his  smile  hath  blest. 

Their  steps  still  roving,  but  their  hearts  at  rest. 

With  thee  all  toils  are  sweet,  each  clime  hath  charms; 

Earth — sea  alike — our  world  within  our  arms! 

Ay — let  the  loud  winds  whistle  o'er  the  deck. 

So  that  those  arms  clin^  closer  round  my  neck: 

The  deepest  murmur  of  this  lip  shall  be 

No  sigh  for  safety,  but  a  prayer  for  thee! 

The  war  of  elements  no  fears  impart 

To  Love,  whose  deadliest  bane  is  human  Art: 

There  lie  the  only  rocks  our  course  ct:n  check; 

Here  moments  menace — tfiere  are  years  of  wreck! 

*  "  Jannat  ftl  Xden/'  the  perpetual  abode,  the  Massulmau  paradig«. 


* 


JU 


CANTO  n.] 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABTDOS. 


121 


But  hence  ye  thoughts  that  rise  in  Horror's  shape! 
This  hour  bestows,  or  ever  bars  escape. 
Few  words  remain  of  mine  my  tale  to  close: 
Of  thine  but  one  to  waft  us  from  our  foes; 
Yea — ^foes — to  me  will  Giafflr's  hate  decline? 
And  is  not  Osman,  who  would  part  us,  thine? 


XXI. 

"  His  head  and  faith  from  doubt  and  death 

Retum'd  in  time  my  guard  to  save; 

Few  heard,  none  told,  that  o'er  the  wave 
From  isle  to  isle  I  roved  the  while: 
And  since,  though  parted  from  my  band, 
Too  seldom  now  I  leave  the  land, 
No  deed  they've  done,  nor  deed  shall  do. 
Ere  I  have  heard  and  doom'd  it  too: 
I  form  the  plan,  decree  the  spoil, 
'Tis  fit  I  oftener  share  the  toil. 
But  now  too  long  I've  held  thine  ear; 
Time  presses,  floats  my  bark,  and  here 
We  leave  behind  but  hate  and  fear. 
To-morrow  Osman  with  his  train 
Arrives — to-night  must  break  thy  chain: 
And  wouldst  thou  save  that  haughty  Bey, 

Perchance,  his  life  who  gave  thee  thine, 
With  me  this  hour  away — away! 

But  yet,  though  thou  art  plighted  mine, 
Wouldst  thou  recall  thy  willing  vow, 
Appall' d  h\  truth  imparted  now, 
Here  rest  1— not  to  see  thee  wed: 
But  be  that  peril  on  my  head!" 


4 


XXII. 

Zuleika,  mute  and  motionless," 

Stood  like  that  statue  of  distress. 

When,  her  last  hope  for  ever  gone. 

The  mother  harden'd  into  stone; 

All  in  the  maid  that  eye  could  see 

Was  but  a  younger  Niobe. 

But  ere  her  lip,  or  e'en  her  eye, 

Essay'd  to  speak,  or  look  reply, 

Beneath  the  garden's  wicket  porch 

Far  flash'd  on  high  a  blazing  torch! 

Another — and  another — and  another — 

"  Oh! — ^no  more — yet  now  my  more  than  brotherl 

Far,  wide,  through  every  thicket  spread, 

The  fearful  lights  are  gleaming  red; 

Nor  these  alone— for  each  right  hand 

Is  ready  with  a  sheathless  brand. 

They  part,  pursue,  return,  and  wheel 

With  searching  flambeau,  shining  steel; 

And  last  of  all,  his  sabre  waving, 

Stern  Giafflr  in  his  fury  raving: 


M* 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS.  [canto  ir. 

And  now  almost  they  touch  the  cave — 
Ohl  must  that  grot  be  Selim's  grave? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless  he  stood — "  'Tis  come — soon  past — 
One  kiss,  Zuleika — 'tis  my  last: 

But  yet  my  band  not  far  from  shore 
May  hear  this  signal,  see  the  flash; 
Yet  now  too  few — the  attempt  were  rash: 

No  matter — yet  one  effort  more." 
Forth  to  the  cavern  mouth  he  stept; 

His  pistol's  echo  rang  on  high, 
Zuleika  started  not  nor  wept. 

Despair  benvmab'd  her  breast  and  eye! — 

''  They  hear  me  not,  or  if  they  ply 

Their  oars,  'tis  but  to  see  me  die; 

That  sound  hath  drawn  my  foes  more  nigh* 
Then  forth  my  father's  scimitar, 
Thou  ne'er  hast  seen  less  equal  war! 

Farewell,  Zuleika! — Sweet!  retire: 
Yet  stay  within — here  linger  safe, 
At  thee  his  rage  will  only  chafe. 
Stir  not — lest  even  to  thee  perchance 
Some  erring  blade  or  ball  ehould  glance. 

Fear'st  thou  for  him? — may  I  expire 

H  in  this  strife  I  seek  thy  sire! 
No— though  by  him  that  poison  pour'd: 
No — ^though  again  he  call  me  coward! 
But  tamely  shall  I  meet  their  steel? 
No — as  each  crest  save  his  may  feel!'* 


One  bound  he  made,  and  gain'd  the  sand: 

Already  at  his  feet  hath  sunk 
The  foremost  of  the  prying  band, 

A  gasping  head,  a  quivering  trunk: 
Another  falls — ^but  round  him  close 

A  swarming  circle  of  his  foes; 
From  right  to  left  his  path  he  cleft, 

And  almost  met  the  meeting  wave: 
His  boat  appears — not  five  oars'  length — 
His  comrades  strain  with  desperate  strength— 

Oh!  are  they  yet  in  time  to  save? 

His  feet  the  foremost  breakers  lave; 
His  band  are  plunging  in  the  bay, 
Their  sabres  glitter  through  the  spray; 
Wet — wild — unwearied  to  the  strand 
They  struggle — now  they  touch  the  land! 
They  come — 'tis  but  to  add  to  slaughter — 
His  heart's  best  blood  is  on  the  water! 


-Jt 


xxv. 

Escaped  from  shot,  unharm'd  by  steel. 
Or  scarcely  grazed  its  force  to  feel, 
Had  Selim  won,  betray'd,  beset. 
To  where  the  strand  and  billows  met: 


^K 


*■ 


cxsto  II.]  THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 

There  as  his  last  step  left  the  land, 
And  the  last  death-blow  dealt  his  hand — 
Ah!  wherefore  did  he  turn  to  look 

For  her  his  eye  but  sought  in  vain? 
That  pause,  that  fatal  gaze  he  took, 

Hath  doom'd  his  death,  or  fix'd  his  chain. 
Sad  proof,  in  peril  and  in  pain, 
How  late  will  Lover's  hope  remain! 
His  back  was  to  the  dashing  spray; 
Behind,  but  close,  his  comrades  lay, 
When,  at  the  instant,  hiss'd  the  ball — 
"  So  may  the  foes  of  Giaffir  fall!" 
Whose  voice  is  heard?  whose  carbine  rang? 
Whose  bullet  through  the  night-air  sang, 
Too  nearly,  deadly  aim'd  to  eiT? 
'Tis  thine — Abdallah's  Murderer! 
The  father  slowly  rued  thy  hate, 
The  son  hath  found  a  quicker  fate: 
Fast  from  his  breast  the  blood  is  bubbling, 
The  whiteness  of  the  sea-foam  troubling — 
If  aught  his  lipb  essay'd  to  groan. 
The  rushing  billows  choked  the  tone! 


128 


XXVI. 

Mom  slowly  rolls  the  clouds  away; 

Few  trophies  of  the  fight  are  there: 
The  shouts  that  shook  the  midnight-bay 
Are  silent;  but  some  signs  of  fray 

That  strand  of  strife  may  bear. 
And  fragments  of  each  shiver'd  brand; 
Steps  stamp'd;  and  dash'd  into  the  sand 
The  print  of  many  a  struggling  hand 

May  there  be  mark'd;  nor  far  remote 

A  broken  torch,  an  oarless  boat; 
And  tangled  on  the  weeds  that  heap 
The  beach  where  shelving  to  the  deep 

There  lies  a  white  capote! 
'Tis  rent  in  twain — one  dark-red  stain 
The  wave  yet  ripples  o'er  in  vain: 

But  where  is  he  who  wore? 
Ye!  who  would  o'er  his  relics  weep, 
Go,  seek  them  where  the  sx^rges  sweep 
Their  burden  round  Sigseum's  steep, 

And  cast  on  Lemnos'  shore: 
The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey, 
O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 
As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow. 
His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow; 
That  hand,  whose  motion  is  not  life, 
Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife. 
Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 
Then  level!' d  with  the  wave— 
What  recks  it,  though  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave? 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  robb'd  the  meaner  worm: 


* 


1^ 


V 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


[CAUTO  n. 


The  only  heart,  the  only  eve 
Had  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scatter' d  limbs  composed, 
And  mourn'd  above  his  turban-stone,* 
That  heart  hath  burst — that  eye  was  closed — 
Yea — closed  before  his  own! 

XXVII. 

By  Hello's  stream  there  is  a  voice  of  wail! 

And  woman's  eye  is  wet — man's  cheek  is  pale: 

Zuleika!  last  of  Giaffir's  race. 
Thy  destined  lord  is  come  too  late: 

He  sees  not — ne'er  shall  see — thy  face  1 
Can  he  not  hear 

The  loud  Wul-^\^llleh  warn  his  distant  ear?t 
Thy  handmaids  weeping  at  the  gate. 
The  Koran-chanters  of  the  hymn  of  fate, 
The  silent  slaves  with  folded  arms  that  wait, 

Sighs  in  the  hall,  and  shrieks  upon  the  gale, 
Tell  him  thy  tale! 

Thou  didst  not  view  thy  Selim  fall! 
That  fearful  moment  when  he  left  the  cavo 
Thy  heart  grew  chill: 

He  was  thy  hope— thy  joy— thy  love— thine  all — 
And  that  last  thought  on  him  thou  couldst  not  save 
Sufficed  to  kill; 

Burst  forth  in  one  wild  cry— and  all  was  still. 
Peace  to  thy  broken  heart,  and  virgin  gravel 

Ah!  happy!  but  of  life  to  lose  the  worst! 

That  grief— though  deep— though  fatal— was  thy  first! 

Thrice  happy!  ne'er  to  feel  nor  fear  the  force 

Of  absence,  shame,  pride,  hate,  revenge,  remorse! 
♦      And,  oh!  that  pang  where  more  than  madness  lies! 

The  worm  that  will  not  sleep — and  never  dies; 

Thought  of  the  gloomy  day  and  ghastly  night, 

That  dreads  the  darkness,  and  yet  loathes  the  light, 

That  winds  around,  and  tears  the  quivering  heart! 

Ah!  wherefore  not  consume  it — and  depart! 

Woe  to  thee,  rash  and  unrelenting  chief ! 
Vainly  thou  heap'st  the  dust  upon  thy  head, 
Vainly  the  sackcloth  o'er  thy  limbs  doth  spread; 
By  that  same  hand  Abdallah— Selim— bled. 

Now  let  it  tear  thy  beard  in  idle  grief: 

Thy  pride  of  heart,  thy  fcride  for  Osman's  bed. 

She,  whom  thy  Sultan  had  but  seen  to  wed, 
Thy  Daughter  's  dead! 
Hope  of  thine  age,  thy  twilight's  lonely  beam, 
The  star  hath  set  that  shone  on  Helle's  stream. 

What  quench'd  its  ray?— the  blood  that  thou  hast  shed! 

Hark!  to  the  hurried  question  of  Despair: 

"  Where  is  my  child?"— an  Echo  answers— "  Where?"! 

♦A  turban  is  carved  in  stone  above  the  graves  of  vien  only. 

t  The  death-sonp  of  the  Turkish  women .  The  "silent  slaves"  are 
the  men,  Avhose  notions  of  deconnn  forbid  couiplaint  in  public. 

t  "  I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  cried,  '  The  friends  of  my 
youth,  where  are  they  5"  and  an  Echo  answered,  •  Where  are  they*'  *' 
—FYom  an  Arabic  MS. 

The  above  quotation  (from  which  the  idea  in  the  text  ia  taken)  must 


r 


CANTO  II.] 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


135 


Within  the  place  of  thousand  tombs 

That  shine  beneath,  while  dark  above 
The  sad  but  living  cypress  glooms, 

And  withers  not,  though  branch  and  leaf 
Are  stamp 'd  with  an  eternal  grief, 

Like  early  unrequited  Love, 
One  spot  exists,  which  ever  blooms, 

E'en  in  that  deadly  grove — 
A  single  rose  is  shedding  there 

Its  lonely  lustre,  meek  and  pale: 
It  looks  as  planted  by  Despair- 
So  white— so  faint— the  slightest  gale 
Might  whirl  the  leaves  on  high; 

And  yet,  though  storms  and  blight  assail, 
And  hands  more  rude  than  wintry  sky 

May  wring  it  from  the  stem — in  vain — 

To-morrow  sees  it  bloom  again! 
The  stalk  some  spirit  gently  rears, 
And  waters  with  celestial  tears; 

For  well  may  maids  of  Helle  deem 
That  this  can  be  no  earthly  flower, 
Which  mocks  the  tempest's  withering  hour, 
And  buds  unshelter'd  by  a  bower; 
Nor  droops,  though  spring  refuse  her  shower, 

Nor  wooes  the  summer  beam: 
To  it  the  livelong  night  there  sings 

A  bird  unseen — but  not  remote: 
Invisible  his  airy  wings. 
But  soft  as  harp  that  Houri  strings 

His  long  entrancing  note! 
It  were  the  Bulbul;  but  his  throat, 

Though  mournful,  pours  not  such  a  strain: 
For  they  who  listen  cannot  leave 
The  spot,  but  linger  there  and  grieve. 

As  if  they  loved  in  vain! 
And  yet  so  sweet  the  tears  they  shed, 
'Tis  sorrow  so  unmix "d  with  dread. 
They  scarce  can  bear  the  mom  to  break 

That  melancholy  spell. 
And  longer  yet  would  weep  and  wake. 

He  sings  so  wild  and  well! 
But  when  the  day-blush  bursts  from  high 
Expires  that  magic  melody. 
And  some  have  been  who  could  believe, 
(So  fondly  youthful  dreams  deceive, 

Yet  harsh  be  they  that  blame,) 
That  note  so  piercing  and  profound 
Will  shape  and  syllable  its  sound, 

Into  Zulieka's  name.* 

be  already  familiar  to  every  reader— it  is  given  in  the  first  annota- 
tion, p.  67,  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Memory;"  a  poem  so  well  known  as 
to  render  a  reference  almost  superfluous,  but  to  whose  pages  all 
will  be  delighted  to  recur, 

*  "And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names,"— Miltojt. 

For  a  belief  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  inhabit  the  form  of  birds, 

we  need  not  travel  to  the  East.    Lord  Lyttelton's  ghost  story,  the 


■H^ 


-if- 


126 


iK 


THE  BRIDE  OF  ABYDOS. 


[CAMTO  U. 


'Tis  from  her  cypress'  summit  heard, 

That  melts  in  air  the  liquid  word; 

'Tis  from  her  lowly  virgin  earth 

That  white  rose  takes  its  tender  birth. 

There  late  was  laid  a  marble  stone; 

Eve  saw  it  placed — the  Morrow  gone! 

It  was  no  mortal  arm  that  bore 

That  deep  fixed  pillar  to  the  shore; 

For  there,  as  Helle's  legends  tell, 

Next  mom  'twas  found  where  Selim  fell; 

Lash'd  by  the  tumbling  tide,  whose  wave 

Denied  his  bones  a  holier  grave: 

And  there  by  night,  reclined,  'tis  said, 

Is  seen  a  ghastly  turban'd  head: 
And  hence  extended  by  the  billow, 
'Tis  named  the  "Pirate-phantom's  pillowl" 
Where  first  it  lay  that  mourning  flower 
Hath  flourish'd;  flourisheth  this  hour. 

Alone  and  dewy,  coldly  pure  and  pale; 

As  weeping  Beauty's  cheek  at  Sorrow's  tale! 

belief  of  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  that  George  I.  flew  into  her  window 
in  the  shape  of  a  raven  (see  Orford's  *'  Reminiscences  "),  and  many 
other  instances,  bring  this  superstition  nearer  home.  The  most 
singular  was  the  whim  of  a  Worcester  lady,  who,  believing  her 
daughter  to  exist  in  the  shape  of  a  singine:-bird,  literally  furnished 
her  pew  in  the  cathedral  with  cages  full  of  the  kind;  and  as  she  was 
rich,  and  a  benefactress  in  beautifying  the  church,  no  obje<;tion 
was  made  to  her  harmless  folly.  For  this  anecdote,  see  Orford's 
••Letters." 


■it 


< 

i                                 i 

t- 

■H 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTE. 

TO 

JOHN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ., 

THIS  POKM  IS  msCUIBKU 
BY  HIS 

FRIEND. 
jAinjART  255,  1816. 

1^ 

,  t 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

•*  Thk  grand  army  of  the  Turks,  (in  1715,)  under  the  Prime  Vizier, 
.to  open  to  themselves  a  way  into  the  heart  of  the  Morea,  and  to 
form  the  siege  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  the  most  considerable  place  in 
all  that  country,*  thought  it  best  in  the  first  place  to  attack  Corinth, 
upon  which  they  made  several  storms.    The  garrison  being  weak- 
ened, and  the  governor  seeing  it  was  impossible  to  hold  out  against 
so  mighty  a  force,  thought  it  fit  to  beat  a  parley;  but  while  they 
were  treating  about  the  articles,  one  of  the  magazines  in  the  Turk- 
ish army,  wherein  they  had  six  hundred  barrels  of  powder,  blew  up 
by  accident,  whereby  six  or  seven  hundred  men  were  killed;  which 
so  enraged  the  infidels,  that  they  would  not  grant  any  capitulation, 
butstormed  the  place  with  so  much  fuiy,  that  they  took  it,  and  put 
most  of  the  garrison,  with  Siguier  Minotti,  the  governor,  to  the 
.     sword.    The  rest,  with  Antonio  Bembo,  proveditor  extraordinary, 
were  made  prisoners  of  war."— Hisforyo/t/ie  Turks,  vol.  iii.  p.  151. 

*  Napoli  di  Romania  is  not  now  the  most  considerable  place  in  the 
Morea,  but  Tripolitza,  where  the  Pacha  resides,  and  maintains  his 
government.    Napoli  is  near  Argos     I  visited  all  three  in  1810-11; 
and,  in  the  course  of  journeying  through  the  country  from  my  first 
arrival  in   1809.  I  crossed  the  Isthmus  eight  times  in  my  way  from 
Attica  to  the  Morea,  over  the  mountains,  or  in  the  other  direction, 
when  passins:  from  the  Gulf  of  Athens  to  that  of  Lepanto.     Both  the 
routes  are  picturesque  and  beautiful,  though  very  different:  that  by 
sea  has  more  sameness;  but  the  voyage  being  always  within  sight 
of  land,  and  often  very  near  it,  presents  many  attrJactive  views  of 
the  islands  Salamis,  ^ina,  Poro,  &c. ,  and  the  coast  of  the  continent. 

*                                                                                                                                   *• 

t* 

■^ 

P                                  -                               ^ 

P 

4 


IK 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


Maitt  a  vanish'd  year  and  a^e, 

And  tempest's  breath,  and  battle's  rage, 

Have  swept  o'er  Corinth;  yet  she  stands 

A  fortress  form'd  to  Freedom's  hands. 

The  whirlwind's  wrath,  the  earthquake's  shock 

Have  left  untouch'd  her  hoary  rock, 

The  keystone  of  a  land,  which  still, 

Though  fall'n,  looks  proudly  on  that  hill^ 

The  landmark  to  the  double  tide 

That  purpling  rolls  on  either  side, 

As  if  their  waters  chafed  to  meet, 

Yet  pause  and  crouch  beneath  her  feet. 

But  could  the  blood  before  her  shed 

Since  first  Timoleon's  brother  bled. 

Or  baffled  Persia's  despot  fled, 

Arise  from  out  the  earth  which  drank 

The  stream  of  slaughter  as  it  sank, 

That  sanguine  ocean  would  o'erflow 

Her  isthmus  idly  spread  below: 

Or  could  the  bones  of  all  the  slain, 

Who  perish'd  there,  be  piled  again, 

That  rival  pyramid  would  rise 

More  mountain-like,  through  those  clear  skies, 

Than  yon  towcr-capp'd  Acropolis, 

Which  seems  the  very  clouds  to  kiss. 


II. 

On  dun  Cithaeron's  ridge  appears 
The  gleam  of  twice  ten  thousand  spears; 
And  downward  to  the  Isthmian  plain, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  either  main, 
The  tent  is  pitch'd,  the  Crescent  shines 
Along  the  Moslem's  leaguering  lines; 
And  the  dusk  Spahis'  bands  advance 
Beneath  each  bearded  Pacha's  glance; 
And  far  and  wide  as  eye  can  reach 
The  turban'd  cohorts  throng  the  beach; 
And  there  the  Arab's  camel  kneels, 
And  there  his  steed  the  Tartar  wheels; 


-Hit 


Ht 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

The  Turcoman  hath  left  his  herd,* 
The  sabre  round  his  loins  to  gird; 
And  there  the  volleying  thunders  pour, 
Till  waves  grow  smoother  to  the  roar. 
The  trench  is  dug,  the  cannon's  breath 
Wings  the  far  hissing  globe  of  death; 
Fast  whirl  the  fragments  from  the  wall, 
Which  crumbles  with  the  ponderous  ball; 
And  from  that  wall  the  foe  replies, 
O'er  dusty  plain  and  smoky  skies 
With  fires  that  answer  fast  and  well 
The  summons  of  the  Infidel. 


129 


III. 

But  near  and  nearest  to  the  wall 
Of  those  who  wish  and  work  its  fall. 
With  deeper  skill  in  war's  black  art 
Than  Othman's  sons,  and  high  of  heart 
As  any  chief  that  ever  stood 
Triumphant  in  the  fields  of  blood; 
From  post  to  post,  and  deed  to  deed. 
Fast  spurring  on  his  reeking  steed, 
Where  sallying  ranks  the  trench  assail. 
And  make  the  foremost  Moslem  quail; 
Or  where  the  battery,  guarded  well. 
Remains  as  yet  impregnable, 
Alighting  cheerly  to  inspire 
The  soldier  slackening  in  his  fire; 
The  first  and  freshest  of  the  host 
Which  Stamboul's  Sultan  there  can  boast, 
To  guide  the  follower  o'er  the  field. 
To  point  the  tube,  the  lance  to  wield. 
Or  whirl  around  the  bickering  blade; — 
Was  Alp,  the  Adrian  renegade! 


From  Venice — once  a  race  of  worth 

His  gentle  sires — he  drew  his  birth; 

But  late  an  exile  from  her  shore, 

Against  his  countrymen  he  bore 

The  arms  they  taught  to  bear;  and  now 

The  turban  girt  his  shaven  brow. 

Through  many  a  change  had  Corinth  pass'd 

With  Greece  to  Venice'  rule  at  last; 

And  here,  before  her  walls,  with  those 

To  Greece  and  Venice  equal  foes, 

He  stood  a  foe,  with  all  the  zeal 

Which  young  and  fiery  converts  feel, 

Within  whose  heated  bosom  throngs 

The  memoiy  of  a  thousand  wrongs. 

To  him  had  Venice  ceased  to  be 

Her  ancient  civic  boastr— <'the  Free;" 


*  The  life  of  the  Turcomans  is  wandering  and  patriarchal;  they 
dwell  in  tents. 


^ 

130  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.      ^ 

And  in  the  palace  of  St.  Mark 
Unnamed  accusers  in  the  dark 
Within  the  "  Lion's  mouth  "  had  placed 
A  charge  against  hira  uneffaced: 
He  fled  in  time,  and  saved  his  life, 
To  waste  his  future  years  in  strife, 
That  taught  his  land  how  great  her  loss 
In  him  who  triumph'd  o'er  the  Cross, 
'Gainst  which  he  rear'd  the  Crescent  high, 
And  battled  to  avenge  or  die. 

V. 

Coumourgi— he  whose  closing  scene* 
Adorn'd  the  triumph  of  Eugene, 
When  on  Carlowitz'  bloody  plain, 
The  last  and  mightiest  of  the  slain, 
'     He  sank,  regretting  not  to  die, 

But  cursed  the  Christian's  victory — 
Coumourgi — can  his  glory  cease, 
That  latest  conqueror  of  Greece, 
Till  Christian  hands  to  Greece  restore 
The  freedom  Venice  gave  of  yore? 
A  hundred  years  have  roll'd  away 
Since  he  refix'd  the  Moslem's  sway, 
And  now  he  led  the  Mussulman, 
And  gave  the  guidance  of  the  van 
To  Alp,  who  well  repaid  the  trust 
By  cities  levell'd  with  the  dust; 
And  proved,  by  many  a  deed  of  death, 
How  firm  his  heart  in  novel  faith. 


The  walls  grew  weak;  and  fast  and  hot 

Against'them  pour'd  the  ceaseless  shot, 

With  unabating  fury  sent. 

From  battery  to  battlement; 

And  thunder-like  the  pealing  din 

Rose  from  each  heated  culverin: 

And  here  and  there  some  crackling  dome 

Was  fired  before  the  exploding  bomb: 

And  as  the  fabric  sank  beneath 

The  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath. 

In  red  and  wreathing  columns  flash'd 

The  flame,  as  loud  the  ruin  crash'd, 

Or  into  countless  meteors  driven. 

Its  earth-stars  melted  into  heaven; 

•  AH  Coumourgi,  the  favorite  of  three  sultans,  and  Grand  Vizier  to 
Achmet  III.,  after  recovering  Peloponnesus  from  the  Venetians  in 
one  campaign,  was  mortally  wounded  in  the  next,  against  the  Ger- 
mans, at  the  battle  of  Peterwardein  (in  the  plain  of  Carlowitz),  in 
Hungary,  endeavoring  to  rally  his  guards,  lie  died  of  his  wounds 
next  day.  His  last  order  was  the  decapitation  of  General  Breuner, 
and  some  other  German  prisoners;  and  his  last  words,  "Oh  that! 
could  thus  serve  all  the  Christian  dogs!"  a  speech  and  act  not  unlike 
one  of  Caliprula.  He  wa«  a  young  man  of  great  ambition  and  un- 
bounded presumption:  on  being  told  that  Prince  Eugene,  then  op- 
posed to  him,  "was  a  great  generai,"he  said,  "I  shall  become  a 
greater,  and  at  his  expense." 


t 


■iir 


-If* 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Whose  clouds  that  day  grew  doubly  dun 
Impervious  to  the  hidden  sun, 
With  volumed  smoke  that  slowly  grew 
To  one  wide  sky  of  sulphurous  hue. 


131 


But  not  for  vengeance,  long  delay'd, 
Alone,  did  Alp,  the  renegade, 
The  Moslem  warriors  sternly  teach 
His  skill  to  pierce  the  promised  breach: 
Within  those  walls  a  maid  was  pent 
His  hope  would  win,  without  consent 
Of  that  inexorable  sire, 
Whose  heart  refused  him  in  its  ire, 
When  Alp,  beneath  his  Christian  name, 
Her  virgin  hand  aspired  to  claim. 
In  happier  mood,  and  earlier  time, 
While  unimpeach'd  for  traitorous  crime, 
Gayest  in  gondola  or  hall. 
He  glitter' d  through  the  Carnival; 
And  tuned  the  softest  serenade 
That  e'er  on  Adria's  waters  play'd 
At  midnight  to  Italian  maid. 


And  many  deem'd  her  heart  was  won; 

For  sought  by  numbers,  given  to  none, 

Had  young  Francesca's  hand  remain' d 

Still  by  the  church's  bonds  unchain'd: 

And  when  the  Adriatic  bore 

Lanciotto  to  the  Paynim  shore, 

Her  wonted  smiles  were  seen  to  fail, 

And  pensive  wax'd  the  maid  and  pale; 

More  constant  at  confessional. 

More  rare  at  masque  and  festival; 

Or  seen  at  such  with  downcast  eyes. 

Which  conquer'd  hearts  they  ceased  to  prizel 

With  listless  look  she  seems  to  gaze; 

With  humbler  care  her  form  arrays; 

Her  voice  less  lively  in  the  song; 

Her  step,  though  light,  less  fleet  among 

The  pairs,  on  whom  the  Morning's  glance 

Breaks,  yet  unsated  with  the  dance. 


Sent  by  the  state  to  guard  the  land, 
(Which,  wrested  from  the  Moslem's  hand, 
While  Sobieski  tamed  his  pride 
By  Buda's  wall  and  Danube's  side, 
The  chiefs  of  Venice  wrung  away 
From  Patra  to  Euboea's  bay,) 
Minotti  held  in  Corinth's  towers 
The  Doge's  delegated  powers, 
While  yet  the  pitying  eye  of  Pea6e 
Smiled  o'er  her  long-forgotten  Greece: 
And  ere  that  faithless  truce  was  broke 
Which  freed  her  from  the  unchristiau  yoke, 


^H- 


132  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

With  him  his  gentle  daughter  came; 
Nor  there,  since  Menelaus'  dame 
Forsook  her  lord  and  land,  to  prove 
What  woes  await  on  lawless  love, 
Had  fairer  form  adom'd  the  shore 
Than  she,  the  matchless  stranger,  bore. 


The  wall  is  rent,  the  ruins  yawn, 
And,  with  to-morrow's  earliest  dawn, 
O'er  the  disjointed  mass  shall  vault 
The  foremost  of  the  fierce  assault. 
The  bands  are  rank'd;  the  chosen  van 
Of  Tartar  and  of  Mussulman, 
The  full  of  hope,  misnamed  "  forlorn," 
Who  hold  the  thought  of  death  in  scorn, 
And  win  their  way  with  falchion's  force, 
Or  pave  the  path  with  many  a  corse. 
O'er  which  the  following  brave  may  rise. 
Their  stepping-stone— the  last  who  dies  I 


TIs  midnight;  on  the  mountains  brown 

The  cold,  round  moon  shines  deeply  down: 

Blue  roll  the  waters,  blue  the  sky 

Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high. 

Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light. 

So  wildly,  spiritually  bright; 

Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 

And  turn'd  to  earth  without  repining. 

Nor  wish'd  for  Avings  to  flee  away. 

And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray? 

The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there, 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air; 

And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook. 

But  murmur'd  meekly  as  the  brook. 

The  winds  were  pillow'd  on  the  waves; 

The  banners  droop'^d  along  their  staves. 

And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling. 

Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling; 

And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke. 

Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 

Save  where  the  steed  neigh 'd  oft  and  shrill. 

And  echo  answer'd  from  the  hill. 

And  the  wide  hum  of  that  wild  host 

Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 

As  rose  the  Muezzin's  voice  in  air 

In  midnight  call  to  wonted  prayer; 

It  rose,  that,  chanted  mournful  strain, 

Like  some  lone  spirit's  o'er  the  plain: 

'Twas  musical,  but  sadly  sweet. 

Such  as  when  winds  and  harp-strings  meet, 

And  take  a  long  unmeasured  tone. 

To  mortal  minstrelsy  unknown. 

It  seem'd  to  those  within  the  wall 

A  cry  prophetic  of  their  fp,ll: 


♦Jl- 


*♦ 


^h 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

It  struck  even  the  besiegers'  ear 
With  something  ominous  and  drear, 
An  undefined  and  sudden  thrill, 
Which  makes  the  heart  a  moment  still, 
Then  beat  with  quicker  pulse,  ashamed 
Of  that  strange  sense  its  silence  framed: 
Such  as  a  sudden  passing-bell 
Wakes,  though  but  for  a  stranger's  knell. 


133 


The  tent  of  Alp  was  on  the  shore; 

The  sound  was  hush'd,  the  prayer  was  o'er; 

The  watch  was  set,  the  night-round  made, 

All  mandates  issued  and  obey'd: 

'Tis  but  another  anxious  night. 

His  pains  the  morrow  may  requite 

With  all  revenge  and  love  can  pay. 

In  guerdon  for  then-  long  delay. 

Few  hours  remain,  and  he  hath  need 

Of  rest,  to  nerve  for  many  a  deed 

Of  slaughter;  but  within  his  soul 

The  thoughts  like  troubled  waters  roll. 

He  stood  alone  among  the  host; 

Not  his  the  loud  fanatic  boast 

To  plant  the  Crescent  o'er  the  Cross, 

Or  risk  a  life  with  little  loss. 

Secure  in  Paradise  to  be 

By  Houris  loved  immortally: 

Nor  his,  what  burning  patriots  feel 

The  stem  exaltedness  of  zeal, 

Profuse  of  blood,  untired  in  toil, 

When  battling  on  the  parent  soil. 

He  stood  alone — a  renegade 

Against  the  country  he  betray'd. 

He  stood  alone  amidst  his  band, 

Without  a  trusted  heart  or  hand: 

They  follow'd  him,  for  he  was  brave, 

And  great  the  spoil  he  got  and  gave; 

They  crouch'd  to  him,  for  he  had  sldll 

To  warp  and  wield  the  vulgar  will: 

But  still  his  Christian  origin 

With  them  was  little  less  than  sin. 

They  envied  even  the  faithless  fame 

He  eam'd  beneath  a  Moslem  name: 

Since  he,  their  mightiest  chief,  had  been 

In  youth,  a  bitter  Nazarene. 

They  did  not  know  how  pride  can  stoop, 

When  baffled  feelings  withering  droop; 

They  did  not  know  how  hate  can  burn 

In  hearts  once  changed  from  soft  to  stem; 

Nor  all  the  false  and  fatal  zeal 

The  convert  of  revenge  can  feel. 

He  ruled  them — man  may  rule  the  worst; 

By  ever  daring  to  be  first: 

So  lions  o'er  the  jackal  sway; 

The  jackal  points,  he  fells  the  prey, 


Ht 


iK 


134  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Then  on  the  vulvar  yelling  press, 
To  gorge  the  relics  of  success. 

XIII. 

His  head  grows  fever'd,  and  his  pnlse 

The  c[uick  successive  throbs  convulse; 

In  vam  from  side  to  side  he  throws 

His  form*  in  courtship  of  repose; 

Or  if  he  dozed,  a  sound,  a  start 

Awoke  him  with  a  sunken  heart. 

The  turban  on  his  hot  brow  press' d, 

The  mail  weigh 'd  lead-like  on  his  breast, 

Though  oft  and  long  beneath  its  weight 

Upon  his  eyes  had  slumber  sate, 

Without  or  couch  or  canopy, 

Except  a  rougher  field  and  sky 

Than  now  might  yield  a  warrior's  bed, 

Than  now  along  the  heaven  was  spread. 

He  could  not  rest,  he  could  not  stay 

Within  his  tent  to  wait  for  day. 

But  walk'd  him  forth  along  the  sand, 

Where  thousand  sleepers  strew'd  the  strand* 

What  pillow'd  them?  and  why  should  he 

More  wakeful  than  the  humblest  be? 

Since  more  their  peril,  worse  their  toil. 

And  yet  they  fearless  dream  of  spoil; 

While  he  alone,  where  thousands  pass'd 

A  night  of  sleep,  perchance  their  last, 

In  sickly  vigil  wander'd  on, 

And  envied  all  he  gazed  upon. 

XIV. 

He  felt  his  soul  become  more  light 
Beneath  the  freshness  of  the  night. 
Cool  was  the  silent  sky,  though  calm, 
And  bathed  his  brow  with  airy  balm: 
Behind,  the  camp— before  him  lay, 
In  many  a  winding  creek  and  bay, 
Lepanto's  gulf;  and  on  the  brow 
Of  Delphi's  hill,  unshaken  snow, 
High  and  eternal,  such  as  shone 
Three  thousand  summers  brightly  gone, 
Along  the  gulf,  the  mount,  the  clime; 
It  will  not  melt,  like  man,  to  time: 
Tyrant  and  slave  are  swept  away, 
Less  form'd  to  wear  before  the  rav; 
But  that  white  veil,  the  lightest,  frailest. 
Which  on  the  mighty  mount  thou  hailero, 
While  tower  and  tree  are  torn  and  rent, 
Shines  o'er  Its  craggy  battlement; 
In  form  a  peak.  In  height  a  cloud, 
In  texture  like  a  hovering  shroud, 
Thus  high  by  parting  Freedom  spread. 
As  from  her  fond  abode  she  fled, 
And  linger'd  on  the  spot,  where  long 
Her  prophet  spirit  spake  iu  song. 


■it 


TfHE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Oh!  still  her  step  at  moments  falters 
O'er  wither'd  fields  and  ruln'd  altars, 
And  fain  wonld  wake,  in  souls  too  broken, 
By  pointing  to  each  glorious  token. 
But  vain  her  voice,  till  better  days 
Dawn  in  those  yet  remember'd  rays, 
Which  shone  upon  the  Persian  flying, 
And  saw  the  Spartan  smile  in  dying. 


135 


Not  mindless  of  these  mighty  times 

Was  Alp,  despite  his  flight  and  crimes; 

And  through  this  night,  as  on  he  wander' d, 

And  o'er  the  past  and  i^resent  ponder' d, 

And  thought  upon  the  glorious  dead 

Who  there  in  better  cause  had  bled, 

He  felt  how  faint  and  feebly  dim 

The  fame  that  could  accrue  to  him. 

Who  cheer'd  the  baud,  and  waved  the  sword 

A  traitor  in  a  turban 'd  horde; 

And  led  them  to  the  lawless  siege. 

Whose  best  success  were  sacrilege. 

Not  so  had  those  his  fancy  number' d, 

The  chiefs  whose  dust  around  him  slumber'd; 

Their  phalanx  marshall'd  on  the  plain. 

Whose  bulwarks  were  not  then  in  vain. 

They  fell  devoted,  but  undying; 

The  very  gale  their  names  seem'd  sighing: 

The  waters  murmur' d  of  their  name; 

The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame; 

The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 

Claim'd  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay; 

Their  spirits  wrapt  the  dusky  mountain, 

Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain; 

The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river, 

Roll'd  mingling  with  their  fame  for  ever. 

Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears. 

That  land  is  glory's  still,  and  theirs! 

'Tis  still  a  watchword  to  the  earth: 

When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth 

He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread, 

So  sanction'd,  on  the  tyrant's  head: 

He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 

Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 

XVI. 

Still  by  the  shore  Alp  mutely  mused, 
And  woo'd  the  freshness  night  diffused. 
There  shrinks  no  ebb  in  that  tideless  sea,* 
Which  changeless  rolls  eternally; 
So  that  wildest  of  waves,  in  their  angriest  mood, 
Scarce  break  on  the  bounds  of  the  land  for  a  rood; 
And  the  powerless  moon  beholds  them  flow, 
Heedless  if  she  come  or  go: 

*  The  reader  need  hardly  be  reminded  that  there  are  no  percept- 
ible tides  in  the  Mediterranean. 


*ii 


it 


4k 


136  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Calm  or  high,  in  main  or  bay, 

On  their  course  she  hath  no  sway. 

The  rock  unworn  its  base  doth  bare, 

And  looks  o'er  the  surf,  but  it  comes  not  there; 

And  the  fringe  of  the  foam  may  be  seen  below, 

On  the  line  that  it  left  long  ages  ago: 

A  smooth  short  space  of  yellow  sand 

Between  it  and  the  greener  land. 


He  wander'd  on,  along  the  beach, 

Till  within  the  range  of  a  carbine's  reach 

Of  the  leaguer'd  wall;  but  they  saw  him  not, 

Or  how  could  he  'scape  from  the  hostile  shot, 

Did  traitors  lurk  in  the  Christian's  hold? 

Were  their  hands  grown  stiff,  or  their  hearts  wax'd  cold, 

I  know  not,  in  sooth;  but  from  yonder  wall 

There  flash'd  no  fire,  and  there  hiss'd  no  ball. 

Though  he  stood  beneath  the  bastion's  frown, 

That  flank'd  the  seaward  gate  of  town; 

Though  he  heard  the  sound,  and  could  almost  tell 

The  sullen  words  of  the  sentinel. 

As  his  measur'd  step  on  the  stone  below 

Clank'd,  as  he  paced  it  to  and  fro; 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival. 

Gorging  and  gi-owling  o'er  carcass  and  limb! 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him! 

From  a  Tartar's  skull  they  had  stripp'd  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh; 

And  their  white  tusks  crunch'd  o'er  the  whiter  skull,* 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws,  when  their  edge  grew  dull. 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they  fed; 

So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast 

With  those  who  had  fall'n  for  that  night's  repast. 

And  Alp  knew,  by  the  turbans  that  roll'd  on  the  sand, 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band: 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  shawls  of  their  wear. 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tuft  of  hair,t 

All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild-dog's  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

But  close  by  the  shore  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf. 

There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 

Who  had  stolen  from  the  hills  but  kept  away. 

Scared  by  the  dogs  from  the  human  prey; 

But  he  seized  on  nis  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 

Pick'd  by  the  birds;  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

*  This  spectacle  I  have  seen,  such  as  described,  beneath  the  wall 
of  the  Seraprlio  at  Constantinople,  in  the  little  cavities  worn  by  the 
Bosphorus  in  the  rock,  a  narrow  tt^-race  of  which  projects  between 
the  wall  and  the  water.  I  think  the  fact  is  also  mentioned  in  Hob- 
house's  Travels.  The  bodies  were  probably  those  of  some  refrac- 
tory Janizaries. 

+  This  tuft,  or  long  lock,  is  left  from  a  superstition  that  Mohammed 
Win  draw  thera  Into  paradise  by  it.  ... 


-^e 


^^ 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 


137 


Alp  tum'd  him  from  the  sickening  sight: 

Never  had  shaken  his  nerves  in  fight; 

But  he  better  could  brook  to  behold  the  dying, 

Deep  in  the  tide  of  their  warm  blood  lying, 

Scorch'd  with  the  death-thirst,  and  writhing  in  vain, 

Than  the  perishing  dead  who  are  past  all  pain. 

There  is  something  of  pride  in  the  perilous  hour, 

Whate'er  be  the  shape  in  Avhieh  death  may  lour; 

For  Fame  is  there  to  say  who  bleeds^p 

And  Honor's  eye  on  daring  deeds! 

But  when  all  is  past,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 

O'er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless  dead, 

And  see  worms  of  the  earth,  and  fowls  of  the  air. 

Beasts  of  the  forest,  all  gathering  there; 

All  regarding  man  as  their  prey. 

All  rejoicing  in  his  decay. 


There  is  a  temple  in  ruin  stands, 

Fashion'd  by  long-forgotten  hands; 

Two  or  three  columns,  and  many  a  stone, 

Marble  and  granite,  with  grass  o'ergrownl 

Out  upon  Time!  it  will  leave  no  more 

Of  the  things  to  come  than  the  things  before  I 

Out  upon  Time!  who  for  ever  will  leave 

But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 

O'er  that  which  hath  been,  and  o'er  that  which  must  be! 

What  we  have  seen,  our  sons  shall  see; 

Remnants  of  things  that  have  pass'd  away. 

Fragments  of  stone,  rear'd  by  creatures  of  clayl 


He  sate  him  down  at  a  pillar's  base. 

And  pass'd  his  hand  athwart  his  face; 

Like  one  in  dreary  musing  mood. 

Declining  was  his  attitude; 

His  head  was  drooping  on  his  breast, 

Fever' d,  throbbing,  and  opprest; 

And  o'er  his  brow,  so  downward  bent. 

Oft  his  beating  fingers  went. 

Hurriedly,  as  you  may  see 

Your  own  run  over  the  ivory  key, 

Ere  the  measured  tone  is  taken, 

By  the  chords  you  would  awaken. 

Tihere  he  sate  all  heavily, 

As  he  heard  the  night-wind  sigh, 

Was  it  the  wind,  through  some  hollow  stone,* 

*  I  must  her,e  acknowledge  a  close,  though  unintentional,  resem- 
blance in  these  twelve  lines  to  a  passage  in  an  unpublished  poem 
of  Mr  Coleridg**,  called  "  Christabel  ^'  It  wasnot  till  after  these  lines 
were  written  that  I  heard  that  wild  and  singularly  original  and 
beautiful  poem  recited:  and  the  MS.  of  that  production  I  never  saw- 
till  very  recently,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Coleridge  himself,  who,  I 
hope,  is  convinced  that  I  have  not  been  a  wilful  plagiarist.  The 
original  idea  undoubtedly  pertains  to  Mr.  Coleridge  whose  poem 
has  been  composed  above  fourteen  years.    Let  nie  conclude  by  a 


■HJ- 


^^♦ 


^ 

138  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Sent  that  soft  and  tender  moan? 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  he  look'd  on  the  sea, 

But  it  was  unrippled  as  glass  may  be; 

He  look'd  on  the  long  grass — it  waved  not  a  blade; 

How  was  that  gentle  sound  convey'd? 

He  look'd  to  the  banners — each  flag  lay  still, 

So  did  the  leaves  on  Cithaeron's  hill. 

And  he  felt  not  a  breath  come  over  his  cheek; 

What  did  that  sudden  sound  bespeak? 

He  tum'4  to  the  left— is  he  sure  of  sight? 

There  sate  a  lady,  youthful  and  bright! 

XX. 

He  started  up  with  more  of  fear 
Than  if  an  armed  foe  were  near. 
**  God  of  my  fathers!  what  is  here? 
Who  art  thou,  and  wherefore  sent 
~  So  near  a  hostile  armament?" 
His  trembling  hand  refused  to  sign 
The  cross  he  deem'd  no  more  divine: 
He  had  resumed  it  in  that  hour, 
But  conscience  wrung  away  the  power. 
He  gazed — he  saw:  he  knew  the  face 
Of  beauty,  and  the  form  of  grace; 
It  was  Francesca  by  his  side, 
The  maid  who  might  have  been  his  bride! 

The  rose  was  yet  upon  her  cheek, 

But  mellow'd  with  a  tenderer  streak: 

Where  was  the  play  of  her  soft  lips  fled? 

Gone  was  the  smile  that  enliven'd  their  red. 

The  ocean's  calm  within  their  view, 

Beside  her  eye  had  less  of  blue; 

But  like  that  cold  wave  it  stood  still, 

And  its  glance,  though'  clear,  was  chill. 

Around  her  form  a  thin  robe  twining. 

Nought  conceal'd  her  bosom  shining; 

Through  the  parting  of  her  hair, 

Floating  darkly  do^vnward  there, 

Her  rounded  arm  show'd  white  and  bare: 

And  ere  yet  she  made  reply. 

Once  she  raised  her  hand  on  high; 

It  was  so  wan  and  transparent  of  hue. 

You  might  have  seen  the  moon  shine  through. 

XXI. 
"  I  come  from  my  rest  to  him  I  love  best, 
That  I  may  be  happy,  and  he  may  be  blest. 
I  have  pass'd  the  guards,  the  gate,  the  wall; 
Sought  thee  in  safety  through  foes  and  all.  ^ 
'Tis  said  the  lion  will  turn  and  flee  '  • 

From  a  maid  in  the  pride  of  her  purity; 
And  the  Power  on  high,  that  can  shield  the  good 
Thus  from  the  tyrant  oi  the  wood, 

hope  that  he  will  not  longer  delav  the  publication  of  a  production  of 
which  I  can  only  add  my  mite  of  approbation  to  the  applause  of  far 
more  competent  judges. 

*A — — *♦ 


I 


ih 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  139 

Hath  extended  its  mercy  to  guard  me  as  weU 
From  the  hands  of  the  leaguering  infidel. 
I  come — and  if  I  come  in  vain, 
Never,  oh  never,  we  meet  again! 
Thou  hast  done  a  fearful  deed 
In  falling  away  from  thy  fathers'  creed: 
But  dash  that  turban  to  earth,  and  sign 
The  sign  of  the  cross,  and  for  ever  he  mine; 
Wring  the  black  drop  from  thy  heart. 
And  to-morrow  unites  us  no  more  to  part." 

"  And  where  should  our  bridal-couch  be  spread? 

In  the  midst  of  the  dying  and  the  dead? 

For  to-morrow  we  give  to  the  slaughter  and  flame 

The  sons  and  the  shrines  of  the  Christian  name. 

None,  save  thou  and  thine,  I've  sworn, 

Shall  be  left  upon  the  mom: 

But  thee  will  I  bear  to  a  lovely  spot, 

"Where  our  hands  shall  be  join'd,  and  our  sorrow  forgot. 

There  thou  yet  shalt  be  my  bride, 

When  once  again  I've  quell'd  the  pride 

Of  Venice:  and  her  hated  race 

Have  felt  the  arm  they  would  debase, 

Scourge,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  those 

Whom  vice  and  envy  made  my  foes." 

Upon  his  hand  she  laid  her  own — 

Light  was  the  touch,  but  it  thrill'd  to  the  bone, 

And  shot  a  chillness  to  his  heart, 

Which  fix'd  him  beyond  the  power  to  start. 

Though  slight  was  that  grasp  so  mortal  cold, 

He  could  not  loose  him  from  its  hold: 

But  never  did  clasp  of  one  so  dear 

Strike  on  the  pulse  with  such  feeling  of  fear, 

As  those  thin  fingers,  long  and  white. 

Froze  through  his  blood  by  their  touch  that  night. 

The  feverish  glow  of  his  brow  was  gone, 

And  his  heart  sank  so  still  that  it  felt  like  stone, 

As  he  look'd  on  the  face,  and  beheld  its  hue. 

So  deeply  changed  from  what  he  knew: 

Fair  but  faint — without  the  ray 

Of  mind,  that  made  each  feature  play 

Like  sparkling  waves  on  a  sunny  day; 

And  her  motionless  lips  lay  still  as  death, 

And  her  words  came  forth  without  her  breath, 

And  there  rose  not  a  heave  o'er  her  bosom's  swell, 

And  there  seem'd  not  a  pulse  in  her  veins  to  dwell. 

Though  her  eye  shone  out,  yet  the  lids  were  fix'd, 

And  the  glance  that  it  gave  was  wild  and  unmix' d 

With  aught  of  change,  as  the  eyes  may  seem 

Of  the  restless  who  walk  in  a  troubled  dream; 

Like  the  figures  on  arras,  that  gloomily  glare, 

Stirr'd  by  the  breath  of  the  wintry  air, 

So  seen  by  the  dying  lamp's  fitful  light. 

Lifeless,  but  life-like,  and  awful  to  sight; 

As  they  seem,  through  the  dimness,  about  to  come  down 

From  the  shadowy  waU  where  their  images  frown; 


— . — ^ — it^ 

140  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Fearfully  flitting  to  and  fro, 

As  the  gusts  on  the  tapestry  come  and  go. 

"  If  not  for  the  love  of  me  be  given 
Thus  much,  then,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,— 
Again  I  say — ^that  turban  tear 
From  off  thy  faithless  brow,  and  swear 
Thine  injured  country's  sons  to  spare, 
Or  thou  art  lost;  and  never  shalt  see — 
Not  earth — that's  past— but  heaven  or  me. 
If  this  thou  dost  accord,  albeit 
A  heavy  doom  'tis  thine  to  meet. 
That  doom  shall  half  absolve  thy  sin, 
And  mercy's  gate  may  receive  thee  within: 
But  pause  one  moment  more,  and  take 
The  curse  of  Him  thou  didst  forsake; 
And  look  once  more  to  heaven,  and  see 
Its  love  for  ever  shut  from  thee. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon — * 
'Tis  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged; 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  look'd  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 

The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky; 

But  his  heart  was  swoll'n,  and  tum'd  aside,  "] 

By  deep  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Roll'd  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

Me  sue  for  mercy!    He  dismay 'd 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid! 

lie,  wroug'd  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave! 

No — though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 

And  charged  to  crush  him— let  it  burst! 

He  look'd  upon  it  earnestly. 

Without  an  accent  of  reply; 

He  watch'd  it  passing:  it  is  flown: 

Full  on  his  eye  the  clear  moon  shone. 

And  thus  he  spake — "  Whate'er  my  fate, 

I  am  no  changeling — 'tis  too  late: 

The  reed  in  storms  may  bow  and  aulver, 

Then  rise  again;  the  tree  must  shiver. 

What  Venice  made  me,  I  must  be, 

Her  foe  in  all,  save  love  to  thee: 

But  thou  art  safe:  oh,  fly  with  me!" 

♦  I  have  been  told  that  the  idea  expressed  in  this  and  the  five  fol- 
lowing lines  has  been  admired  by  those  whose  api)robation  is  valu- 
able, lam  p:lad  of  it:  but  it  is  not  original— at  least  not  mine:  it 
may  be  found  much  better  expressed  in  pages  1S2-184  of  the  English 
version  of  "  Vathek  "  (I  forget  the  precise  page  of  the  French),  a 
work  to  which  I  have  before  referred;  and  never  recur  to,  or  read, 
without  a  renewal  of  gratification. 


^ : ^ 

THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  141 

He  tum'd,  but  she  is  gone! 

Nothing  is  there  but  the  column  stone. 

Hath  she  sunk  in  the  earth,  or  melted  in  air? 

He  saw  not— he  knew  not— but  nothing  is  there. 

XXII. 

The  night  is  past,  and  shines  the  sun 

As  if  that  morn  were  a  jocund  one. 

Lightly  and  brightly  breaks  away 

The  Morning  from  her  mantle  gray, 

And  the  Noon  will  look  on  a  sultry  day. 

Hark  to  the  trump,  and  the  drum. 
And  the  mournful  sound  of  the  barbarous  horn, 
And  the  flap  of  the  banners,  that  flit  as  they're  borne, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  steed,  and  the  multitude's  hum. 
And  the  clash  and  the  shout,  "  They  come,  they  come!" 
The  horsetails  are  pluck'd  from  the  ground,  and  the  sword 
From  its  sheath;  and  they  form,  and  but  wait  for  the  word. 
Tartar,  and  Spahi,  and  Turcoman, 
Strike  your  tents,  and  throng  to  the  van; 
Mount  ye,  spur  ye,  skirr  the  plain. 
That  the  fugitive  may  flee  in  vain. 
When  he  breaks  from  the  town;  and  none  escape, 
Aged  or  young  in  the  Christian  shape; 
While  your  fellows  on  foot,  in  a  fiery  mass. 
Bloodstain  the  breach  through  which  they  pass. 
The  steeds  are  all  bridled,  and  snort  to  the  rein; 
Curved  is  each  neck,  and  flowing  each  mane; 
White  is  the  foam  of  their  champ  on  the  bit: 
The  spears  are  uplifted;  the  matches  are  lit; 
The  cannon  are  pointed,  and  ready  to  roar, 
And  crush  the  wall  they  have  crumbled  before: 
Forms  in  his  phalanx  each  Janizar; 
Alp  at  their  head;  his  right  arm  is  bare, 
So  is  the  blade  of  his  scimitar; 
The  khan  and  the  pachas  are  all  at  their  post: 
The  vizier  himself  at  the  head  of  the  host. 
When  the  culverin's  signal  is  fired,  then  on; 
,  Leave  not  in  Corinth  a  living  one — 

A  priest  at  her  altars,  a  chief  in  her  halls, 
A  hearth  in  her  mansions,  a  stone  on  her  walls. 
God  and  the  prophet— Allah  Hu! 
Up  to  the  skies  with  that  wild  halloo! 

"  There  the  breach  lies  for  passage,  the  ladder  to  scale; 
And  your  hands  on  your  sabres,  and  how  should  ye  fail? 
He  who  first  downs  with  the  red  cross  may  crave 
His  heart's  dearest  wish;  let  him  ask  it,  and  havel" 
Thus  utter'd  Coumourgi,  the  dauntless  vizier; 
The  reply  was  the  brandish  of  sabre  and  spear, 
And  the  shout  of  fierce  thousands  in  joyous  ire: — 
Silence — ^hark  to  the  signal — fire! 

XXIIl. 

As  the  wolves,  that  headlong  go 
On  the  stately  buffalo, 

♦* — *♦ 


142  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Though  with  fiery  eyes,  and  angry  roar, 
And  hoofs  that  f,tamp,  and  horns  that  gore, 
He  tramples  on  earth,  or  tosses  on  high 
The  foremost,  who  rush  on  his  strength  but  to  die; 
Thus  against  the  wall  they  went, 
Thus  the  first  were  backward  bent; 
Many  a  bosom,  sheathed  in  brass, 
Strew'd  the  earth  like  broken  glass, 
'       Shiver'd  by  the  shot,  that  tore 

The  ground  whereon  they  moved  no  more: 
Even  as  they  fell,  in  files  they  lay, 
Like  the  mower's  grass  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  his  work  is  done  on  the  levell'd  plain; 
Such  was  the  fall  of  the  foremost  slain. 


As  the  spring-tides,  with  heavy  splash, 

From  the  clins  invading  dash 

Huge  fragments,  sapp'd  by  the  ceaseless  flow, 

Till  white  and  thundering  down  they  go, 

Like  the  avalanche's  snow 

On  the  Alpine  vales  below; 

Thus  at  length,  outbreathed  and  worn, 

Corinth's  sons  were  downward  borne 

By  the  long  and  oft-renew'd 

Charge  of  the  Moslem  multitude. 

In  firmness  they  stood,  and  in  masses  they  fell, 

Heap'd,  by  the  host  or  the  infidel, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot: 

Nothing  there,  save  death,  was  mute; 

Stroke,  and  thrust,  and  flash,  and  cry 

For  quarter,  or  for  victory, 

Mingle  there  with  the  vollejing  thunder. 

Which  makes  the  distant  cities  wonder 

How  the  sounding  battle  goes, 

If  with  them,  or  for  their  foes; 

If  they  must  mourn,  or  may  rejoice 

In  that  annihilating  voice, 

Which  pierces  the  deep  hills  through  and  through 

With  an  echo  dread  and. new: 

You  might  have  heard  it,  on  that  day, 

O'er  Saiamis  and  Megara; 

CWe  have  heard  the  hearers  say,) 

Even  unto  Piraeus'  bay. 


From  the  point  of  encountering  blades  to  the  hilt. 

Sabres  and  swords  with  blood  were  gilt; 

But  the  rampart  is  won  and  the  spoil  beg^n. 

And  all  but  the  after  carnage  done. 

Shrillier  shrieks  now  minghng  come 

From  within  the  j>lunder  d  dome: 

Hark  to  the  haste  of  flying  feet. 

That  splash  in  the  blood  of  the  slippery  street; 

But  here  and  there,  where  vantage-ground 

Agahist  the  foe  may  still  be  found. 


^t 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  143 

Desperate  groups,  of  twelve  or  ten, 
Make  a  pause,  and  turn  again — 
"With  banded  backs  against  the  wall, 
Fiercely  stand,  or  fighting  fall. 

There  stood  an  old  man — his  hairs  were  white, 

But  his  veteran  arm  was  full  of  might: 

So  gallantly  bore  he  the  brunt  of  the  fray,  *■ 

The  dead  before  him,  on  that  day, 

In  a  semicircle  lay; 

Still  he  combated  unwounded, 

Though  retreating,  unsurrotinded. 

Many  a  scar  of  former  fight 

Lurk'd  beneath  his  corselet  bright; 

But  of  every  wound  his  body  bore, 

Each  and  all  had  been  ta'en  before: 

Though  aged,  he  was  so  iron  of  limb. 

Few  of  our  youth  could  cope  with  him; 

And  the  foes,  whom  he  singly  kept  at  bay, 

Outnumber' d  his  thin  hairs  of  silver  gray. 

From  right  to  left  his  sabre  swept: 

Many  an  Othman  mother  wept 

Sons  that  were  unborn,  when  dipp'd 

His  weapon  first  in  Moslem  gore. 

Ere  his  years  could  count  a  score. 

Of  all  he  might  have  been  the  sire 

Who  fell  that  day  beneath  his  ire: 

For,  sonless  left  long  years  ago. 

His  wrath  made  many  a  childless  foe; 

And  since  the  day,  when  in  the  strait* 

His  only  boy  had  met  his  fate. 

His  parent's  iron  hand  did  doom 

More  than  a  human  hecatomb. 

If  shades  by  carnage  be  appeased, 

Patroclus'  spirit  less  was  pleased 

Than  his,  Minotti's  son,  who  died 

Where  Asia's  bounds  and  ours  divide; 

Buried  he  lay  where  thousands  before 

For  thousands  of  years  were  inhumed  on  the  shore; 

What  of  them  is  left,  to  tell 

Where  they  lie,  and  how  they  fell? 
Not  a  stone  on  their  turf,  nor  a  bone  in  their  graves; 
But  they  live  in  the  verse  that  immortally  saves. 


XXVI. 

Hark  to  the  Allah  shout!  a  band 

Of  the  Mussulman  bravest  and  best  is  at  hand: 

Their  leader's  nervous  arm  is  bare. 

Swifter  to  smite,  and  never  to  spare — 

Unclothed  to  the  shoulder  It  waves  them  on; 

Thus  in  the  fight  is  he  ever  known: 

Others  a  gaudier  garb  may  show, 

To  tempt  the  spoil  of  the  greedy  foe; 

*  In  the  naval  battle  at  the  mouth  of  the  Dardanelles,  between  the 
Venetians  and  the  Turks. 


Mh 


^ ^ 

144  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Many  a  hand  's  on  a  richer  hilt, 
But  none  on  a  steel  more  ruddily  gilt; 
Many  a  loftier  turban  may  wear, — 
Alp  is  but  known  by  the  white  arm  bare; 
Look  through  the  thick  of  the  fight,  'tis  there! 
There  is  not  a  standard  on  that  shore 
So  well  advanced  the  ranks  before; 
*      There  is  not  a  banner  in  Moslem  war 
Will  lure  the  Delis  half  so  far; 
It  glances  like  a  falling  star! 
Where'er  that  mighty  arm  is  seen, 
The  bravest  be,  or  late  have  been; 
There  the  craven  cries  for  quarter 
Vainly  to  the  vengeful  Tartar; 
Or  the  hero,  silent  lying. 
Scorns  to  yield  a  groan  in  dying; 
Mustering  his  last  feeble  blow 
'Gainst  the  nearest  levell'd  foe. 
Though  faint  beneath  the  mutual  wound, 
Grappling  on  the  gory  ground. 

XXVII. 

Still  the  old  man  stood  erect. 
And  Alp's  career  a  moment  check'd. 
"  Yield  thee,  Minfttti;  quarter  take. 
For  thine  own,  thy  daughter's  sake." 

"  Never,  renegado,  never! 

Though  the  life  of  thy  gift  would  last  for  ever." 

*'Francesca! — oh,  my  promised  bride: 
Must  she  too  perish  by  thy  pride?" 

"  She  Is  safe. "— "  Where?  where?"—"  In  heaven, 

From  whence  thy  traitor  soul  is  driven — 

Far  from  thee,  and  undefiled." 

Grimly  then  Minotti  smiled. 

As  he  saw  Alp  staggering  bow 

Before  his  words!  as  with  a  blow. 

"OGod!  when  died  she?"— "  Yesternights 

Nor  weep  I  for  her  spirit's  flight: 

None  of  my  pure  race  shall  be 

Slaves  to  Mohammed  and  thee — 

Come  on!" — That  challenge  is  in  vain — 

Alp's  already  with  the  slain! 

While  Minotti' s  words  were  wreaking 

More  revenge  in  bitter  speaking 

Than  his  falchion's  point  had  found, 

Had  the  time  allowed  to  wound, 

From  within  the  neighboring  porch 

Of  a  long-defended  church. 

Where  the  last  and  desperate  few 

Would  the  failing  tight  renew. 

The  sharp  shot  dash'd  Alp  to  the  groimd; 

Ere  an  eye  could  view  the  wound 

** fr.. 


-it 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

That  crash'd  through  the  brain  of  the  infidel, 

Round  he  spun,  and  down  he  fell; 

A  flash  like  fire  within  his  eyes 

Blazed,  as  he  bent  no  more  to  rise, 

And  then  eternal  darkness  sunk 

Through  all  the  palpitating  trunk; 

Nought  of  life  left,  save  a  quivering 

Where  his  limbs  were  slightly  shivering: 

They  turn'd  him  on  his  back;  his  breast 

And  brow  were  stain'd  with  gore  and  dust, 

And  through  his  lips  the  life-blood  oozed, 

From  its  deep  veins  lately  loosed; 

But  in  his  pulse  ther3  was  no  throb, 

Nor  on  his  lips  one  dying  sob; 

Sigh,  nor  word,  nor  struggling  breath 

Heralded  his  way  to  death: 

Ere  his  very  thought  could  pray, 

Unanel'd  he  pass'd  away. 

Without  a  hope  from  mercy's  aid, — 

To  the  last — ^a  Renegade. 


145 


Fearfully  the  yell  arose 
Of  his  followers  and  his  foes; 
These  in  joy,  in  fury  those: 
Then  again  in  conflict  mixing. 
Clashing  swords,  and  spears  transfixing. 
Interchanged  the  blow  and  thrust. 
Hurling  warriors  in  the  dust.    • 
Street  by  street,  and  foot  by  foot. 
Still  Minotti  dares  dispute 
The  latest  portion  of  the  land 
Left  beneath  his  high  command; 
With  him  aiding  heart  and  hand. 
The  remnant  of  his  gallant  band. 

Still  the  church  is  tenable. 
Whence  issued  late  the  fated  ball 
That  half  avenged  the  city's  fall,        ^ 

When  Alp,  her  fierce  assailant,  fell: 
Thither  bending  sternly  back. 
They  leave  before  a  bloody  track; 
And,  with  their  faces  to  the  foe. 
Dealing  wounds  with  every  blow. 
The  chief,  and  his  retreating  train, 
Join  to  those  within  the  fane; 
There  they  yet  may  breathe  awhile, 
Shelter'd  by  the  massy  pile. 


XXIX. 

Brief  breathing-time!  the  turban'd  host, 
With  added  ranks  and  raging  boast. 
Press  onward  with  such  strength  and  heat. 
Their  numbers  balk  their  own  retreat; 
For  narrow  the  way  that  led  to  the  spot 
Where  still  the  Christians  yielded  not; 


146  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

And,  the  foremost,  if  fearful,  may  vainly  try 

Through  the  massy  column  to  turn  and  fly; 

They  perforce  must  do  or  die. 

They  die:  but  ere  their  eyes  could  close, 

Avengers  o'er  their  bodies  rose; 

Fresh  and  furious,  fast  they  fill 

The  ranks  unthinn'd,  though  slaughter'd  still: 

And  faint  the  weary  Christians  wax 

Before  the  still  renew'd  attacks: 

And  now  the  Othmans  gain  the  gate; 

Still  resists  its  iron  weight. 

And  still,  all  deadly  aim'd  and  hot, 

From  every  crevice  comes  the  shot; 

From  every  shatter' d  window  pour 

The  volleys  of  the  sulphurous  shower: 

But  the  portal  wavering  grows  and  weak— 

The  iron  yields,  the  hinges  creak — 

It  bends — and  falls — and  all  is  o'er; 

Lost  Corinth  may  resist  no  morel 


XXX. 

Dark,  sternly,  and  all  alone, 

Minotti  stood  o'er  the  altar-stone; 

Madonna's  face  upon  him  shone, 

Painted  in  heavenly  hues  above. 

With  eyes  of  li?-ht  and  looks  of  love; 

And  placed  upon  that  holy  shrine 

To  fix  our  thoughts  on  things  divine, 

When  pictured  there  we  kneeling  see 

Her,  and  the  boy-God  on  her  knee, 

Smiling  sweetly  on  each  prayer 

To  heaven,  as  if  to  waft  it  there. 

Still  she  smiled;  even  now  she  smiles. 

Though  slaughter  streams  along  her  aisles: 

Minotti  lifted  his  aged  eye. 

And  made  the  sign  of  a  cross  with  a  sigh, 

Then  seized  a  torch  which  blazed  thereby; 

And  still  he  stood,  while,  with  steel  and  flame, 

Inward  and  onward  the  Mussulman  came. 


XXXI. 

The  vaults  beneath  the  mosaic  stone 

Contain'd  the  dead  of  ages  gone; 

Their  names  were  on  the  graven  floor, 

But  now  illegible  with  gore; 

The  carved  crests,  and  curious  hues 

The  varied  marble's  veins  diliuse. 

Were  smear'd,  and  slippery— stain'd,  and  strewn 

With  broken  swords  and  helms  o'crthrowTi: 

There  were  dead  abo.e,  and  the  dead  below 

Lay  cold  in  many  a  coftin'd  row; 

You  might  see  them  piled  in  cable  state, 

By  a  pale  light  through  a  gloomy  grate: 

But  War  had  enter'd  their  dark  caves. 

And  stored  along  the  vaulted  graves 


^i- 


^K 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH.  147 

Her  sulphurous  treasures,  thickly  spread 
In  masses  by  the  fleshless  dead: 

Here,  throughout  the  siege,  had  been 

The  Christians'  chiefest  magazine; 
To  these  a  late-form'd  train  npw  led, 
Minotti's  last  and  stem  resource. 
Against  the  foe's  o'erwhelming  force. 

XXXII. 

The  foe  came  on,  and  few  remain 

To  strive,  and  those  must  strive  in  vain: 

For  lack  of  further  lives,  to  slake 

The  thirst  of  vengeance  now  awake. 

With  barbarous  blows  they  gash  the  dead, 

And  lop  the  already  lifeless  head. 

And  fell  the  statues  from  their  niche, 

And  spoil  the  shrines  of  offerings  rich. 

And  from  each  other's  rude  hands  wrest 

The  silver  vessels  saints  had  bless'd. 

To  the  high  altar  on  they  go; 

Oh,  but  it  made  a  glorious  show! 

On  its  table  still  behold 

The  cup  of  consecrated  gold; 

Massy  and  deep,  a  glittering  prize, 

Brightly  it  sparkles  to  plunderer's  eyes: 

That  mom  it  held  the  holy  wine. 

Converted  by  Christ  to  His  blood  so  divine. 

Which  His  worshippers  drank  at  the  break  of  day 

To  shrive  their  souls  ere  they  join'd  in  the  fray, 

Still  a  few  drops  within  it  lay; 

And  round  the  sacred  table  glow 

Twelve  lofty  lamps,  in  splendid  row, 

From  the  purest  metal  cast; 

A  spoil — ^the  richest,  and  the  last. 


So  near  they  came,  the  nearest  stretch'd 
To  grasp  the  spoil  he  almost  reach 'd. 

When  old  Minotti's  hand 
Touch'd  with  a  torch  the  train — 

'Tis  fired! 
Spire,  vaults,  and  shrine,  the  spoil,  the  slain. 

The  turban'd  victors,  the  Christian  band. 
All  that  of  living  or  dead  remain, 
Hurl'd  on  high  with  the  shiver'd  fane. 

In  one  wild  roar  expired! 
The  shatter' d  town — the  walls  thrown  down- 
The  waves  a  moment  backward  bent — 
The  hills  that  shake,  although  unrent, 

As  if  an  earthquake  pass'd — 
The  thousand  shapeless  things  all  driven 
In  cloud  and  flame  athwart  the  heaven, 

By  that  tremendous  blast- 
Proclaim' d  the  desperate  conflict  o'er 
On  that  too  long  afflicted  shore! 


♦* 


^K 


148  THE  SIEGE  OF  CORINTH. 

Up  to  the  sky  like  rockets  go 

All  that  mingled  there  below: 

Many  a  tall  and  goodly  man, 

Scorch'd  and  shnvell'd  to  a  span, 

When  he  fell  to  earth  again 

Like  a  cinder  strew'd  the  plain: 

Down  the  ashes  shower  like  rain; 

Some  fell  in  the  gulf,  which  received  the  sprinkles 

With  a  thousand  circling  wrinkles; 

Some  fell  on  the  shore,  but,  far  away, 

Scatter'd  o'er  the  isthmus  lay; 

Christian  or  Moslem,  which  be  they? 

Let  their  mothers  see  and  say! 

When  in  cradled  rest  they  lay, 

And  each  nursing  mother  smiled 

On  the  sweet  sleep  of  her  child, 

Little  deem'd  she  such  a  day 

Would  rend  those  tender  limbs  away. 

Not  the  matrons  that  them  bore 

Could  discern  their  offspring  more; 

That  one  moment  left  no  trace 

More  of  human  form  or  face 

Save  a  scatter'd  scalp  or  bone: 

And  down  came  blazing  rafters,  strown 

Around,  and  many  a  falling  stone, 

Deeply  dinted  in  the  clay, 

All  blacken'd  there  and  reeking  lay. 

All  the  living  things  that  heard 

That  deadly  earth-shock  disappear'd: 

The  wild  birds  flew;  the  wild  dogs  fled, 

And  howling  left  the  unburied  dead; 

The  camels  from  their  keepers  broke; 

The  distant  steer  forsook  the  yoke — 

The  nearer  steed  plunged  o'er  the  plain, 

And  burst  his  girth,  and  tore  his  rein; 

The  bull-frog's  note,  from  out  the  marsh. 

Deep-mouth  d  arose,  and  doubly  harsh; 

The  wolves  yell'd  on  the  cavem'd  hill 

Where  echo  roll'd  in  thunder  still; 

The  jackal's  troop,  in  gather'd  cry,* 

Bay'd  from  afar  complainingly. 

With  a  mix'd  and  mournful  sound. 

Like  crying  babe,  and  beaten  hound; 

With  sudden  wing,  and  ruflled  breast, 

The  eagle  left  his  rocky  nest. 
And  mounted  nearer  to  the  sun. 
The  clouds  beneath  him  seem'd  so  dun 

Their  smoke  assail'd  his  startled  beak. 

And  made  him  higher  soar  and  shriek — 
Thus  was  Corinth  lost  and  won! 

*  I  believe  I  have  taken  a  poetical  license  to  transplant  the  jackal 
from  Asia.  In  Greece  I  never  saw  nor  heard  these  animals;  but 
among  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  I  have  heard  them  by  hundreds.  They 
haunt  ruins,  and  follow  armies. 


HJ 


PARISINA. 


TO 


SCROPE  BERDMORE  DAV.IES,  ESQ., 

THE  FOLLOWING  POKM  18  INSCRIBED, 

BY  ONE  WHO  HAS  LONG  ADMIRED  HIS  TALENTS  AND  VALUED 

HIS  FRIENDSHIP. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  poem  is  grounded  on  a  circumstance  mentioned  in 
Gibbon's  "Antiquities  of  the  House  of  Brunswick."  I  am  aware 
that  in  modern  times  the  delicacy  or  fastidiousness  of  the  reader 
may  deem  such  subjects  unfit  for  the  purposes  of  poetry.  The 
Greek  dramatists,  and  some  of  the  best  of  our  old  English  writers, 
were  of  a  different  opinion ;  as  Alfieri  and  Schiller  have  also  been, 
more  recently,  upon  the  Continent.  The  following  extract  will  ex- 
plain the  facts  on  which  the  story  is  founded.  The  name  of  Azo  is 
substituted  for  Nicholas,  as  more  metrical:— 

"Under  the  reign  of  Nicholas  III.,  Ferrar  was  polluted  with  a 
domestic  tragedy.  By  the  testimony  of  an  attendant,  and  his  own 
observation,  the  Marquis  of  Est  discovered  the  incestuous  loves  of 
his  wife  Parisina,  and  Hugo  his  bastard  son,  a  beautiful  and  valiant 
youth.  They  were  beheaded  in  the  castle  by  the  sentence  of  a  father 
and  husband,  who  published  his  shame,  and  survived  their  execu-* 
tion.  He  was  unfortunate,  if  they  were  guilty;  if  they  were  inno' 
cent,  he  was  still  more  unfortunate;  nor  is  there  any  possible  situa- 
tion in  which  I  can  sincerely  approve  the  last  act  of  the  justice  of  a 
parent."— (7i66on's  Miscellaneous  Works,  vol.  iii.  p.  470. 


m* 


PARISINA.* 


It  is  the  hour  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard; 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 
Seem  sweet  in  every  whisper'd  word; 

And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 

And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

♦  The  facts  on  which  the  present  poem  was  grounded  are  thus  given 
in  Frizzi's  History  of  Ferrara: 

"  This  turned  out  a  calamitous  year  for  the  people  of  Ferrara;  for 
there  occurred  a  very  tragical  event  in  the  court  of  their  sovereign. 
Our  annals,  both  printed  and  in  manuscript,  with  the  exception  of 
the  unpolished  and  negligent  work  of  Sardi,  and  one  other,  have 
given  the  following  relation  of  it,— f  i*om  which,  however,  are  rejected 
many  details,  and  especially  the  narrative  of  Bandelli,  who  wrote  a 
century  afterwards,  and  who  does  not  accord  wiih  the  contemporary 
historians. 

"By  the  above-mentioned  Stella  dell' Assassino,  the  Marquis,  in 
the  year  1405,  had  a  son  called  Ugo.  a  beautiful  and  ingenious  youth. 
Paiisina  Malatesta.  second  wife  of  Niccolo,  like  the  generality  of 
step-mothers,  treated  him  with  little  kindness,  to  the  infinite  regret 
of  the  Max'quis,who  regarded  him  with  fond  partiality.  One  day  she 
asked  leave  of  her  husband  to  undertake  a  certain  journey,  to  which 
he  consented,  but  upon  condition  that  Vgo  should  bear  her  com- 
pany; for  he  hoped  by  these  means  to  induce  her,  in  the  end,  to  lay 
aside  the  obstinate  aversion  which  she  had  conceived  against  him. 
And  indeed  his  intent  was  accomplished  but  too  well,  since,  during 
the  journey,  she  not  only  divested  herself  of  all  her  hatred,  but  feU 
into  the  opposite  extreme.  After  their  return,  the  Marquis  had  no 
longer  any  occasion  to  renew  his  fonuer  reproofs.  It  happened  one 
day  that  a  servant  of  the  Marquis,  named  Zoese,  or,  as  some 
call  him,  Giorgio,  passing  before  the  apartments  of  Parisina,  saw- 
going  out  from  them  one  of  her  chambermaids,  all  terrified  and 
in  tears.  Asking  the  reason,  she  told  him  that  her  mistress,  for 
some  slight  offence,  had  been  beating  her;  and  giving  vent  to  her 
rage,  she  added,  that  she  could  easily  be  revenged,  if  she  chose  to 
make  known  the  criminal  familiarity  which  subsisted  between 
Parisina  and  her  stepson.  The  servant  took  note  of  the  words,  and 
related  them  to  his  master.  He  was  astounded  thereat,  but  scarce- 
ly believing  his  ears,  he  assured  himself  of  the  fact— alas!  too  clear- 
ly—on  the  18th  of  May,  by  looking  through  a  hole  made  in  the 
ceiling  of  his  wife's  chamber.  Instantly  he  broke  into  a  furious  rage, 
and  arrested  both  of  them,  together  with  Aldobrandino  Rungoni, 
of  Modena,  her  gentleman,  and  also,  as  S(5nie  sav,  two  of  the  women 
of  her  chamber,  as  abettors  of  this  sinful  act.  He  ordered  them  to 
be  brought  to  a  hasty  trial,  desiring  the  judges  to  pronounce  sen- 
tence, in  the  accustomed  fonns,  upon  the  culprits.  Tliis  sentence 
was  death.  Some  there  were  that  bestirred  themselves  in  favor  of 
the  delinquents,  and  amongst  others,  Ugoccion  Contrario,  wlio  Avas 
all-powerful  with  Niccolo,  and  also  his  aged  and  nmch  deserving 
minister,  Alberto  dal  Sale.    Both  of  these,  their  tears  flowing  down 


-H^ 


PARISINA. 


IBl 


n 


And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 

And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 

And  In  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure. 

Which  follows  the  decline  of  day. 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 


But  it  is  not  to  list  to  the  waterfall 

That  Parasina  leaves  her  hall, 

And  it  is  not  to  gaze  on  the  heavenly  light 

That  the  lady  walks  in  the  shadow  of  night; 

their  cheeks,  and  upon  their  knees,  implored  him  for  mercy; 
adducing  whatever  reasons  they  could  suggest  for  sparing  the  of- 
fenders, besides  those  motives  of  honor  and  decency  which  might 
persuade  him  to  conceal  from  the  public  so  scandalous  a  deed.  But 
his  rage  made  him  inflexible,  and,  on  the  instant,  he  commanded 
that  the  sentence  should  be  put  in  execution. 

"It  was,  then,  in  the  prisons  of  the  castle,  and  exactly  in  those 
frightful  dungeons  which  are  seen  at  this  day  beneath  the  chamber 
called  the  Aurora,  at  the  foot  of  the  Lion's  tower,  at  the  top  of  the 
street  Gioveeca,  that  on  the  night  of  the  21st  of  May  were  beheaded, 
fii*st,  Ugo,  and  afterwards  Parisina.  Zoese,  h'^  that  accused  her, 
conducted  the  latter  under  his  arm  to  theplace  of  punishment.  She, 
all  along,  fancied  that  she  was  to  be  thrown  into  a  pit,  and  asked 
at  every  step,  whether  she  was  yet  come  to  the  spot?  She  was  told 
that  her  punishment  was  the  axe.  She  inquired  what  had  become 
of  Ugo,  and  received  for  answer  that  he  was  already  dead;  at  the 
which,  sighing  grievously,  she  exclaimed,  'Now,  then,  I  wish  not 
myself  to  live;'  and  being  come  to  the  block,  she  stripped  herself 
with  her  own  hands  of  all  her  ornaments  and  wrapping  a  cloth 
round  her  head,  submitted  to  the  fatal  stroke,  which  terminated  the 
cruel  scene.  The  same  was  done  with  Rangoni,  who,  together  with 
the  othei-s,  according  to  two  calendars  in  the  library  of  St.  Fran- 
cesco, was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  that  convent.  Nothing  else  is 
known  respecting  the  women. 

"The  Marquis  kept  watch  the  whole  of  that  dreadful  night,  and, 
as  he  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards,  inquired  of  the  captain 
of  the  castle  if  Ugo  was  dead  yet?  who  answered  him  >  es.  He  then 
gave  himself  up  to  the  most  desperate  lamentations,  exclaiming, 
'Oh,  that  I  too  was  dead,  since  I  have  been  hurried  on  to  resolve 
thus  against  my  own  Ugo !'  And  then  gnawing  with  his  teeth  a  cane 
which  he  had  in  his  hand,  he  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  in  sighs 
and  in  tears,  calling  frequently  upon  his  oWn  dear  Ugo.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day,  calling  to  mmd  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  make  pub- 
lic his  justification,  seeing  that  the  transaction  could  not  be  kept 
secret,  he  ordered  the  narrative  to  be  drawn  out  upon  paper,  and 
sent  it  to  all  the  courts  of  Italy. 

"On  receiving  this  advice,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  Francesco  Foscari, 
gave  orders,  but  without  publishing  his  reasons,  that  stop  should  be 
put  to  the  preparations  for  a  tournament,  which,  under  the  auspi- 
ces of  the  Marquis,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  city  of  Padua,  was 
about  to  take  place,  in  the  square  of  St.  Mark,  in  order  to  celebrate 
his  advancement  to  the  ducal  chair. 

"The  Marquis,  in  addition  to  what  he  had  already  done,  from 
some  unaceountable  burst  of  vengeance,  commanded  that  as  many 
of  the  married  women  as  were  well  known  to  him  to  be  faithless, 
like  his  Parisina,  should,  like  her,  be  beheaded.  Amongst  others, 
Barberina,  or,  as  some  call  her,  Laodamia  Romei,  wife  of  the  court 
judge,  underwent  this  sentence,  at  the  usual  place  of  execution; 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  quarter  of  St.  Giacoma.  opposite  the  present  for- 
tress, beyond  St.  Paul's.  It  cannot  be  told  how  strange  appeared 
this  proceeding  in  a  prince,  who,  considering  his  own  disposition, 
should,  as  it  seemed,  have  been  in  such  cases  most  indulgent. 
Some,  however,  there  were  who  did  not  fail  to  commend  him." 


-^h 


4t* 


"ih 


152  PARISINA. 

And  if  she  sits  in  Este's  bower, 

'Tis  not  for  the  sake  of  its  full-blown  flower — 

She  listens — but  not  for  the  nightingale — 

Though  her  ear  expects  as  soft  a  tale. 

There  glides  a  step  through  the  foliage  thick, 

And  her  cheek  grows  pale — and  her  heart  beats  quick; 

There  whispers  a  voice  through  the  rustling  leaves, 

And  her  blush  returns,  and  her  bosom  heaves! 

A  moment,  more — and  they  shall  meet — 

'Tis  past — ^her  lover  's  at  her  feet. 

III. 
And  what  unto  them  is  the  world  beside, 
With  all  its  change  of  time  and  tide? 
Its  living  things — its  earth  and  sky — 
Are  nothing  to  their  mind  and  eye. 
And  heedless  as  the  dead  are  they 

Of  aught  around,  above,  beneath; 
As  if  all  else  had  pass'd  away. 

They  only  for  each  other  breathe; 
Their  very  sighs  are  full  of  joy 

So  deep,  that  did  it  not  decay, 
That  happy  madness  would  destroy 

The  hearts  which  feel  its  fiery  sway: 
^f  guilt,  of  peril,  do  they  deem 
In  that  tumultuous  tender  dream? 
Who  that  have  felt  that  passion's  power, 
Or  paused,  or  fear'd,  in  such  an  hour? 
Or  thought  how  brief  such  moments  last? 
But  yet — they  are  already  past! 
Alas  I  we  must  awake  before 
We^know  such  vision  comes  no  more. 


With  many  a  lingering  look  they  leave 

The  spot  of  guilty  gladness  past; 
And  though  they  hope,  and  vow,  they  grieve, 

As  if  that  parting  were  the  last, 
The  frequent  sigh — the  long  embrace — 

The  lip  that  there  would  cling  forever, 
While  gleams  on  Parisina's  face 

The  Heaven  she  fears  will  not  forgive  her. 
As  if  each  calmly  conscious  star 
Beheld  her  frailty  from  afar — 
The  frequent  sigh,  the  long  embrace, 
Yet  binds  them  to  their  trysting-place, 
But  it  must  come,  and  they  must  part 
In  fearful  heaviness  of  heart. 
With  all  the  deep  and  shuddering  chill 
Which  follows  fast  the  deeds  of  ill. 

V. 

And  Hugo  Is  gone  to  his  lonely  bed, 

To  covet  there  another's  bride; 
But  she  must  lay  her  conscious  head 

A  husband's  trusting  heart  beside. 
But  fever'd  in  her  sleep  she  seems. 
And  red  her  cheek  witn  troubled  dreams, 

And  mutters  she  in  her  unrest 


♦4t- 


PARISINA.  153 

A  name  she  dare  not  breathe  by  day, 
And  clasps  her  lord  unto  the  breast 
Which  pants  for  one  away: 
And  he  to  that  embrace  awakes, 
And,  happy  in  the  thought,  mistakes 
That  dreaming  sigh,  and  warm  caress, 
For  such  as  he  was  wont  to  bless; 
And  could  in  very  fondness  weep 
O'er  her  who  loves  him  even  in  sleep. 

VI. 

He  clasp'd  her  sleeping  to  his  heart. 

And  listen'd  to  each  broken  word: 
He  hears — Why  doth  Prince  Azo  start, 

As  if  the  Archangel's  voice  he  heard? 
And  well  he  may — a  deeper  doom 
Could  scarcely  thunder  o'er  his  tomb, 
When  he  shall  wake  to  sleep  no  more, 
And  stand  the  eternal  throne  before. 
And  well  he  may — his  earthly  peace 
Upon  that  sound  is  doom'd  to  cease. 
That  sleeping  whisper  of  a  name 
Bespeaks  her  guilt  and  Azo's  shame. 
And  whose  that  name?  that  o'er  his  pillow 
Sounds  fearful  as  the  breaking  billow, 
Which  rolls  the  plank  upon  the  shore. 

And  dashes  on  the  pointed  rock 
The  wretch  who  sinks  to  rise  no  more — 

So  came  upon  his  soul  the  shock. 
And  whose  that  name? — 'tis  Hugo's — ^his — 
In  sooth  he  had  not  deem'd  of  this! — 
.  'Tis  Hugo's— he,  the  child  of  one 
He  loved — his  own  all-evil  son — 
The  offspring  of  his  wayward  youth, 
When  he  betray'd  Bianca's  truth. 
The  maid  whose  folly  could  confide 
In  him  who  made  her  not  his  bride. 

VII. 

He  pluck'd  his  poniard  in  its  sheath, 
But  sheathed  it  ere  the  point  was  bare — 

Howe'er  unworthy  now  to  breathe, 
He  could  not  slay  a  thing  so  fair — 
At  least,  not  smiling — sleeping — there — 

Nay  more: — he  did  not  wake  her  then, 
But  gazed  upon  her  with  a  glance. 
Which,  had  she  roused  her  from  her  trance, 

Had  frozen  her  sense  to  sleep  again — 

And  o'er  his  brow  the  burning  lamp 

Gleam' d  on  the  dew-drops  big  and  damp. 

She  spake  no  more — but  still  she  slumber'd — 

While,  in  his  thought,  her  days  are  number'd. 

VIII. 

And  with  the  mom  he  sought,  and  found, 
In  many  a  tale  from  those  around. 
The  proof  of  all  he  fear'd  to  know. 
Their  present  guilt,  his  future  woe; 

G* 

l-^a m* 


Hp fjlh^ 

154  PARISINA. 

The  long-conniving  damsels  seek 
To  save  themselves,  and  would  transfer 
The  guilt — the  shame — the  doom — to  her: 

Concealment  is  no  more — they  speak 

All  circumstance  which  may  compel 

Full  credence  to  the  tale  they  tell: 

And  Azo's  tortured  heart  and  ear 

Have  nothing  more  to  feel  or  fear. 

IX. 

He  was  not  one  who  brook'd  delay: 

Within  the  chamber  of  his  state, 
The  chief  of  Este's  ancient  sway 

Upon  his  throne  of  judgment  sate; 
His  nobles  and  his  guards  are  there,— 
Before  him  is  the  sinful  pair; 
Both  young — and  one  how  passing  fairl 
With  swordless  belt,  and  fetter'd  hand, 
O  Christ!  that  thus  a  son  should  stand 

Before  a  father's  face! 
Yet  thus  must  Hugo  meet  his  sire. 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  his  ire, 

The  tale  of  his  disgrace! 
And  yet  he  seems  not  overcome, 
Although,  as  yet,  his  voice  be  dumb. 

X. 

And  still,  and  pale,  and  silently 

Did  Parisina  wait  her  doom; 
How  changed  since  last  her  speaking  eye 

Glanced  gladness  round  the  glittering  room, 
Where  high-born  men  were  proud  to  wait — 
Where  beauty  watch 'd  to  imitate 

Her  gentle  voice — her  lovely  mien — 
And  gather  from  her  air  and  gait 

The  graces  of  its  queen: 
Then — had  her  eye  in  sorrow  wept, 
A  thousand  warriors  forth  had  leapt, 
A  thousand  swords  had  sheathless  shone. 
And  made  her  quarrel  all  their  own. 
Now — what  is  she?  and  what  are  they? 
Can  she  command,  or  these  obey? 
A'l  silent  and  unheeding  now, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  knitting  brow, 
And  folded  arms,  and  freezing  air. 
And  lips  that  scarce  their  scorn  forbear. 
Her  knights  and  dames,  her  court — is  there: 
And  he,  the  chosen  one,  whose  lance 
Had  yet  been  couch 'd  before  her  glance, 
Who— were  his  arm  a  moment  free- 
Had  died  or  gain'd  her  liberty; 
The  minion  of  his  father's  bride — 
He,  too,  is  fetter'd  by  her  side: 
Nor  sees  her  swoln  and  full  eye  swim 
Less  for  her  own  despair  than  him: 
Those  lids — o'er  which  the  violet  vein 
Wandering,  leaves  a  tender  stain, 


-t 


4K 


^h 


PARISINA. 

Shining  through  the  smoothest  white 
That  e'er  did  softest  kiss  invite — 
Now  seem'd  with  hot  and  livid  glow 
To  press,  not  shade,  the  orbs  below; 
Which  glance  so  heavily,  and  fill, 
As  tear  on  tear  grows  gathering  still. 


155 


And  he  for  her  had  also  wept, 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  gazed: 
His  sorrow,  if  he  felt  it,  slept; 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised. 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  soul  avow'd, 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd; 
But  yet  he  dared  not  look  on  her: 
Remembrance  of  the  hours  that  were — 
His  guilt — his  love — his  present  state — 
His  lather's  wrath — all  good  men's  hate — 
His  earthly,  his  eternal  fate — 
And  hers — oh,  herb!  he  dared  not  throw 
One  look  upon  that  deathlike  brow! 
Else  had  his  rising  heart  betray'd 
Remorse  for  all  the  wreck  it  made. 


And  Azo  spake: — "  But  yesterday 

I  gloried  in  a  wife  and  son; 
That  dream  this  morning  pass'd  away: 

Ere  day  declines,  I  shall  have  none. 
My  life  must  linger  on  alone; 
Well — let  that  pass — there  breathes  not  one 
Who  would  not  do  as  I  have  done: 
Those  ties  are  broken — not  by  me; 

Let  that  too  pass; — the  doom  's  preparedl 
Hugo,  the  priest  awaits  on  thee. 

And  then — thy  crime's  reward! 
Away!  address  thy  prayers  to  Heaven, 

Before  its  evening  stars  are  met — 
Learn  if  thou  there  canst  be  forgiven; 

Its  mercy  may  absolve  thee  yet. 
But  here,  upon  the  earth  beneath. 

There  is  no  spot  where  thou  and  I 
Together,  for  an  hour,  could  breathe: 

Farewell!  I  will  not  see  thee  die — 
But  thou,  frail  thing!  shalt  view  his  head^ — 

Away!  I  cannot  speak  the  rest: 

Go!  woman  of  the  wanton  breast; 
Not  I,  but  thou,  his  blood  dost  shed: 
Go!  if  that  si^ht  thou  canst  outlive, 
And  joy  thee  in  the  life  I  give." 


And  here  stem  Azo  hid  his  face — 
For  on  his  brow  the  swelling  vein 
Throbb'd  as  if  back  upon  his  brain 
The  hot  blood  ebb'd  and  flow'd  again; 

And  therefore  bow'd  he  for  a  space, 


*♦ 


« 

156  PARISINA. 

And  pass'd  his  shaking  hand  along 
His  eye,  to  veil  it  from  the  throng; 
While  Hugo  raised  his  chained  handa, 
And  for  a  Drief  delay  demands 
His  father's  ear:  the  silent  sire 
Forbids  not  what  his  words  require. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  death — 

For  thou  hast  seen  me  by  thy  side 

All  redly  through  the  battle  ride, 

And  that  not  once  a  useless  brand 

Thy  slaves  have  wrested  from  my  hand, 

Hath  shed  more  blood  in  cause  of  thine 

Than  e'er  can  stain  the  axe  of  mine; 

Thou  gav'st,  and  may'st  resume  my  breath, 

A  gift  for  which  I  thank  thee  not; 

Nor  are  my  mother's  wrongs  forgot. 

Her  slighted  love  and  ruin^i  name. 

Her  offspring's  heritage  of  shame; 

But  she  is  in  the  grave,  where  he. 

Her  son,  thy  rival,  soon  shall  be. 

Her  broken  heart — my  sever' d  head- 
Shall  witness  for  thee  from  the  dead 

How  trusty  and  how  tender  were 

Thy  youthful  love— paternal  care. 

'Tis  true  that  I  have  done  thee  wrong- 
But  wrong  for  wrong:— this  deem'd  thy  bride, 
The  other  victim  of  thy  pride, 

Thou  know'st  for  me  was  destined  long. 

Thou  saw'st,  and  coveted'st  her  charms— 
And  with  thy  very  crime— my  birth, 
Thou  tauntedst  me— as  little  worth! 

A  match  ignoble  for  her  arms, 

Because,  forsooth,  I  could  not  claim 

The  lawful  heirship  of  thy  name, 

Nor  sit  on  Este's  lineal  throne: 
Yet  were  a  few  short  summers  mine, 
My  name  should  more  than  Este's  shine 

With  honors  all  my  own. 

I  had  a  sword— and  have  a  breast 

That  should  have  won  as  haught  a  crest* 

As  ever  waved  along  the  line 

Of  all  these  sovereign  sires  of  thine. 

Not  always  knightly  spurs  are  worn 

The  brightest  by  the  better  bom; 

And  mine  have  lanced  my  courser's  flank 

Before  proud  chiefs  of  princely  rink, 

When  charging  to  the  cheering  cry 

Of  '  E4te  and  of  Victory  !' 

I  will  not  plead  the  cause  of  crime, 

Nor  sue  thee  to  redeem  from  time 

A  few  brief  hours  or  days  that  must 

At  length  roll  o'er  my  reckless  dust: — 

Such  maddening  moments  as  my  past. 

They  could  not,  and  they  did  not,  last. 

*  ••Haught,"  haughty— "Away,  haughi  man,  thou  art  insulting 

me. ' '— Sh  AKSPEARK. 

-« ■■ »- 


it 


PARISINA.  _ 

Albeit  my  birth  and  name  be  base, 
And  thy  nobility  of  race 
Disdain'd  to  deck  a  thing  like  me — 

Yet  in  my  lineaments  they  trace 

Some  features  of  my  father's  face, 
And  in  my  spirit — all  of  thee. 
From  thee — ^this  tamelessness  of  heart — 
From  thee— nay,  wherefore  dost  thou  start?— 
From  thee  in  all  their  vigor  came 
My  arm  of  strength,  my  soul  of  flame — 
Thou  didst  not  give  me  life  alone. 
But  all  that  made  me  more  thine  own. 
See  what  thy  guilty  love  hath  donel 
^Repaid  thee  with  too  like  a  son  I 
I  am  no  bastard  in  my  soul. 
For  that,  like  thine,  abhorr'd  control: 
And  for  my  breath,  that  hasty  boon 
Thou  gav'st  and  wilt  resume  so  soon, 
I  value  it  no  more  than  thou, 
When  rose  thy  casque  above  thy  brow, 
And  we,  all  side  by  side,  have  striven, 
And  o'er  the  dead  our  coursers  driven: 
The  past  is  nothing — and  at  last 
The  future  can  but  be  the  past; 
Yet  would  I  that  I  then  had  died; 

For  though  thou  work'dst  my  mother's  ill, 
And  made  thy  own  my  destined  bride, 

I  feel  thou  art  ray  father  still; 
And,  harsh  as  sounds  thy  hard  decree, 
'Tis  not  unjust,  although  fi'om  thee. 
Begot  in  sin,  to  die  in  shame, 
My  life  begun  and  ends  the  same: 
As  err'd  the  sire,  so  err'd  the  son. 
And  thou  must  punish  both  in  one. 
My  crime  seems  worse  to  human  view, 
But  God  must  judge  between  us  tool" 


157 


He  ceased — and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
On  which  the  circling  fetters  sounded; 
And  not  an  ear  but  felt  as  wounded, 
Of  all  the  chiefs  that  there  were  rank'd, 
When  those  dull  chains  in  meeting  clank'd: 
Till  Parisina's  fatal  charms 
Again  attracted  every  eye — 
Would  she  thus  hear  him  doom'd  to  die  I 
She  stood,  I  said,  all  pale  and  still, 
The  living  cause  of  Hugo's  ill! 
Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide. 
Not  once  had  tum'd  to  either  side — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelids  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  o'er  which  they  rose, 
But  round  their  orbs  of  deepest  blue 
The  circling  white  .dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood 
As  ice  were  in  her  curdled  blood; 


158  PARISINA. 

But  every  now  and  then  a  tear 
So  large  and  slowly  gather' d  slid 
From  the  long  dark  fringe  of  that  fair  lid, 
It  was  a  thing  to  see,  not  hear! 
And  those  who  saw,  it  did  surprise, 
Such  d.ops  could  fall  from  human  eyes. 
To  speak  she  thought— the  imperfect  note 
Was  choked  within  her  swelling  throat, 
Yet  seem'd  in  that  low,  hollow  groan 
Her  whole  heart  gushing  in  the  tone. 
It  ceased— again  she  thought  to  speak. 
Then  burst  her  voice  in  one  long  shrieK, 
And  to  the  earth  she  fell  like  stone 
Or  statue  from  its  base  o'erthrown, 
More  like  a  thing  that  ne'er  had  life— 
A  monument  of  Azo's  wife — 
Than  her,  that  living,  guilty  thing, 
Whose  every  passion  was  a  sting. 
Which  urged  to  guilt,  but  could  not  bear 
That  guilt's  detection  and  despair. 
But  yet  she  lived— and  all  too  sood 
Recovered  from  that  death-like  swoon — 
But  scarce  to  reason — every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense; 
And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain 
(As  bowstrings,  when  relax'd  by  rain, 
The  erring  arrow  launch  aside) 
Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide— 
The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black, 
With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track. 
Like  lightning  on  the  desert  path, 
When  midnight  storms  are  mustering  wrath. 
She  fear'd — she  felt  that  something  nl 
Lay  on  her  soul,  so  deep  and  chill- 
That  there  was  sin  and  shame  she  knew; 
That  some  one  was  to  die — but  who? 
She  had  forgotten :— did  she  breathe? 
Could  this  be  still  the  earth  beneath 
The  sky  above,  and  men  around; 
Or  were  they  fiends  who  now  so  frown'd 
On  one,  before  whose  eyes  each  eye 
Till  then  had  smiled  in  sympathy? 
All  was  confused  and  undefined 
To  her  alHarr'd  and  wandering  mind; 
A  chaos  of  wild  hopes  and  fears: 
And  now  in  laughter,  now  in  tears, 
But  madly  still  in  each  extreme. 
She  strove  with  that  convulsive  dream; 
For  so  It  seem'd  on  her  to  break: 
Oh!  vainly  must  she  strive  to  wake  I 


Jk 


*it 


XV. 


The  Convent  bells  are  ringing. 
But  mournfully  and  slow: 

In  the  gray  square  turret  swinging, 
With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 


^K 


^K 


PARISINA. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  gol 

Hark!  the  hymn  is  singing — 
The  song  for  the  dead  below, 
Or  the  living  vs^ho  shortly  shall  be  so! 

For  a  departing  being's  soul 

The  death-hymn  peals  and  the  hollow  bells  knoll: 

He  is  near  his  mortal  goal; 

Kneeling  at  the  friar's  knee; 

Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see — 

Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 

With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around— 

And  the  headsman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 

That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 

Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 

Since  he  set  its  edge  anew: 

While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 

To  see  the  Son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  Father. 


159 


XVI. 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 

Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 

Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day. 

And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray; 

And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 

Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head, 

As  his  last  confession  pourinp; 

To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 

In  penitential  holiness. 

He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 

With  absolution  such  as  may 

Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 

That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten 

As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 

And  the  rings  of  chestnut  hair 

Curl'd  half  down  his  neck  so  bare; 

But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 

Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 

With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter.— 

Ohl  that  parting  hour  was  bitter! 

Even  the  stem  stood  chill'd  with  awe: 

Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 

Yet  they  shudder' d  as  they  saw. 


*n 


XVII. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 
Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover! 
His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted. 
His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 
His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd, 
His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd: 
'Tis  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 
The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 
The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 
Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave. 
Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 
And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied; 


r 


160  PARISINA. 

But  no— that  last  indignity 
Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 
All  feelings  seeminglv  subdued, 
In  deep  disdain  were  half  renew'd, 
^  When  headsman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 

Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind: 

As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

**  No— yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 

These  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  die 

At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 

Strike:" — and  as  the  word  he  said, 

Upon  the  block  he  bowed  his  head; 

These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke: 

**  Strike:" — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke — 

RoU'd  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 

Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk, 

In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 

Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain; 

His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver. 

Convulsed  and  quick — then  fix  forever. 

He  died,  as,  erring  man  should  die. 

Without  display,  without  parade; 

Meekly  had  he  bowed  and  pray'd, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid. 
Nor  desperate  of  ail  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling. 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling; 
His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour? 
No  more  reproach — no  more  despair; 
No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer — 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke. 
When,  bared  to  meet  the  headsman's  stroke, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 


xvm. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath: 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A  cold  electric  shiver  ran. 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended; 
And,  with  a  hushing  sound  compress'd, 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast; 
But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 

Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 

Pierced  through  with  forced  and  sullen  shock, 
Save  one: — What  cleaves  the  silent  air 
So  madly  shrill— so  passing  wild? 
That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child. 
Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow. 
To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 
Like  a  soul's  in  endless  woe. 
Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven, 
That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 


♦it- 


^K 


if- 


PARISINA. 

And  every  eye  is  tura'd  thereon; 
But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gonel 
It  was  a  woman's  shriek — and  ne'er 
In  madlier  accents  rose  despair; 
And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  pass'd, 
In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  the  last. 


Or 


161 


Hugo  is  fallen;  and  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen: 

Her  name — as  if  she  ne'er  had  been — 

Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son; 

No  tomb — ^no  memory  had  they; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay; 

At  least  the  knight's  who  died  that  day. 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin-lid: 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode. 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel. 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel; 

Or  if  upon  the  moment  smote. 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With  heart  that  shared  the  headsman's  shock 

In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came, 

In  pity,  o'er  her  shatter'd  frame. 

None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know: 

But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below. 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  woe! 


And  Azo  found  another  bride. 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  him  who  wither' d  in  the  grave; 

Or  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended. 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended; 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  Sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind 

Which  the  Soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  woe: 

Nothing  more  remain'd  below 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days, 


^t 


ft^ 

PARI8INA; 


A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 
A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself— and  yet 
That  would  not  j-ield— nor  could  forget, 
Which,  when  it  least  appear'd  to  melt, 
Intently  thought — intensely  felt; 
The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 
Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close — 
The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 
And  flows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 
Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 
By  thoughts  which  >Jature  had  implanted; 
Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 
Howe'er  our  stifled  fears  we  banish; 
When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start. 
We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart, 
They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed, 
But  flow  back  to  the  fountain-head, 
And  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 
For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 
Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongeal'd, 
And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd. 
With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 
To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft; 
Without  the  power  to  fill  again 
The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain; 
Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 
United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 
With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 
Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree; 
That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill; 
Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 
The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 
If  lopp'd  with  care,  a  strength  may  give. 
By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free: 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scath. 
The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


** 


THE  P1{IS0?{ER  OF  CHILLON. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

When  this  poem  was  composed,  I  was  not  sufficiently  aware  of 
the  history  of  Bonnivard,  or  I  should  have  endeavored  to  dignify 
the  subject  by  an  attempt  to  celebrate  his  courage  and  his  virtues. 
Some  account  of  his  life  will  be  found  below,  furnished  nie  by  the 
kindness  of  a  citizen  of  that  repuulic,  which  is  still  proud  of  the 
memory  of  a  man  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  ancient  freedom:— 

Francois  de  Bonnivard,  son  of  Louis  de  Bonnivard,  a  native  of 

Seysel,  and  Seigneur  of  Lunes,  was  born  in  1496;  he  waseducnted 

at  Turin.     In  15l0,  his  uncle,  Jean-Reiie  de  Bonnivard,  resigned  to 

him  the  Prioiy  of  Saint-Victor,  which  adjoins  the  walls  of  Geneva, 

;  and  which  was  a  considerable  living. 

i  This  great  man, — Bonnivard  is  deserving  of  this  title  for  his  great- 

ness of  soul,  the  uprightness  of  his  heart,  the  nobility  of  his  inten- 
{  tions,  the  wisdom  of  his  counsels,  the  courage  of  his  actions,  the 

I  extent  of  his  learning,  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,— this  great  man. 

\         who  will  ever  excite  the  ad  miration  of  all  those  whom  an  heroic  virtue 
j  can  move,  will  always  inspire  the  most  lively  gratitude  in  the  hearts 

i  of  those  Genevese  who  love  Geneva.    Bonnivard  was  always  one  of 

I  its  firmest  supports;  to  protect  the  liberty  of  our  republic,  he  never 

I  feared  to  lose  his  own;  he  forgot  his  ease,  he  despised  his  wealth;  he 

I  neglected  nothing  to  render  certain  the  happiness  of  the  country 

i  that  he  dignified  by  his  adoption;  from  that  moment  he  loved  it 
asthemost  zealous  of  its  citizens,  he  served  it  with  the  intrepidity 
of  a  hero,  and  he  wrote  its  history  with  the  simplicity  of  a  philoso- 
pher, and  the  ardor  of  a  patriot. 

He  says  in  the  commencement  of  his  "History  of  Geneva,"  that, 
"  as  soon  as  he  commenced  to  read  the  histories  of  nations,  lie  felt 
himself  carried  away  by  his  love  for  republics,  the  interest  of  which 
he  always  advocated."  It  was,  doubtless,  this  very  love  of  liberty 
that  made  him  adopt  Geneva  as  his  country. 

Bonnivard,  while  yet  young,  boldly  stood  forward  as  the  defender 
of  Geneva,  against  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  the  Bishop. 

In  1519,  Bonnivard  became  the  martyr  of  his  country;  the  Duke 
of  Savoy  having  entered  Geneva  with  five  hundred  men,  Bonnivard 
feared  the  resentment  of  the  Duke;  he  wished  to  return  to  Fribourg 
to  avoid  the  consequences;  but  ho  was  betrayed  by  two  men  who 
accompanied  him,  and  conducted  by  order  of  the  prince  to  Grolee, 
where  for  two  years  he  remained  a  prisoner. 

Bonnivard  was  unfortunate  in  his  travels.  As  his  misfortunes  had 
not  slackened  his  zeal  for  Geneva,  he  was  always  a  redoubtable 
enemy  to  those  who  threatened  it,  and  accordingly  he  was  likely  to 
be  exposed  to  their  violence.  He  was  met  in  1530  on  the  Jura,  by 
thieves,  who  stripped  him  of  everything,  and  placed  him  again 
in  the  hands  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy.  This  prince  caused  him  to  be 
confined  in  the  Chateau  of  Chillon,  where  he  remained  without 

I  HB ** 


164  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

being  submitted  to  any  interrogatory  until  1536;  he  was  then  de- 
livered by  the  Bernois,  who  took  possession  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud. 

Bonnivard,  on  leaving  his  captivity,  had  the  pleasure  of  finding 
Geneva  free  and  reformed.  The  Republic  hastened  to  testify  its 
gratitude  to  him,  and  to  recompense  nim  for  the  evils  which  he  had 
suffered.  It  received  him  as  a  citizen  of  the  town,  in  the  month  of 
June,  15.36;  it  gave  him  the  house  formerly  inhabited  by  the  Vicar- 
General,  and  assigned  to  him  a  pension  of  two  hundred  gold  crowns, 
as  long  as  he  should  sojourn  in  Geneva.  He  was  admitted  into  the 
council  of  Two  Hundred  in  1537. 

Bonnivard  did  not  now  cease  to  be  useful;  after  having  labored  to 
make  Geneva  free,  he  succeeded  in  making  it  tolerant.  Bonnivard 
prevailed  upon  the  council  to  accord  to  the  Calvinists  and  peasants 
a  sufficient  time  for  examining  the  propositions  which  were  made  to 
them;  he  succeeded  by  his  meekness.  Christianity  is  always 
preached  with  success  when  it  is  preached  with  charity. 

Bonnivard  was  learned.  His  manuscripts,  which  are  in  the  pub- 
lic library,  prove  that  he  had  diligently  studied  the  Latin  classics, 
and  that  he  had  penetrated  the  depths  of  theology  and  history. 
This  great  man  loved  the  sciences,  and  thought  they  would  consti- 
tute the  glory  of  Geneva;  accordingly  he  neglected  nothing  to  es- 
tablish them  in  this  rising  town.  In  1551,  he  gave  his  library  to  the 
public;  it  was  the  commencement  of  our  public  library.  And  a 
portion  of  his  books  are  those  rare  and  beautiful  editions  of  the 
fifteenth  century  which  are  seen  in  our  collection.  Finally,  during 
the  same  year,  this  good  patriot  appointed  the  Republic  his  heir,  on 
condition  that  it  would  employ  his  wealth  in  supporting  the  college, 
the  foundation  of  which  was  being  projected. 

It  appears  that  Bonnivard  died  in  1570;  but  this  cannot  be  cer- 
tified, as  an  hiatus  occurs  in  the  Necrology,  from  the  month  of 
July,  1570,  to  1571. 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON. 


Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  I 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  'twas  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard! — May  none  these  marks  efface  I 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


is     .j 
ii     1 


^f- 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


Mt  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night,* 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears: 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd,  and  barr'd— forbidden  fare; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death; 
That  father  perish 'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one. 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  be^^un. 

Proud  of  Persecution  s  rage; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd; 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast. 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 

II. 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old. 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'd  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way. 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp. 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp; 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 

*  Ludovlco  Sforza,  and  others.— The  same  is  asserted  of  Marie 
Antoinette's,  the  wife  of  Louis  XVI.,  thoup^h  not  in  quite  so  short  a 
period.  Grief  is  said  to  have  the  same  effect;  to  such,  and  not  to 
fear,  this  change  in  hers  was  to  be  attributed. 


■*v 


■ft* 


Ht- 


iK 


166  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er, 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

III. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone: 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace. 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face. 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight; 
And  thus  together— yet  apart, 
Fetter'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart; 
'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech. 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old. 
Or  song  heroically  bold; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 
A  grating  sound— not  full  and  free 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be; 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 


I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 
And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do— and  did— my  best. 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven. 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved; 
And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 
For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  ti'll  its  summer's  gone, 
Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun; 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright. 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  nought  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


*lt 


4 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


167 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  liad  stood, 
And  perish 'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy: — but  not  in  chains  to  pine: 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine; 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills. 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter 'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  ilow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,* 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high, 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd. 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd. 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 


♦  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens  and  Villa' 
neuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva.  On  itd 
left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone,  and  opposite  are  the  heights  of 
Meillerie  and  the  range  of  Alps  above  Boveret  and  St.  Gingo. 

Near  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent;  below  it,  washing  its  walls, 
the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of  8(i0  feet  (French 
measure);  within  it  are  a  range  of  dungeons,  in  which  the  early 
Reformers,  and  subsequently  prisoners  of  state,  were  confined. 
Across  one  of  the  vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  which  we 
were  informed  that  the  condemned  were  formerly  executed.  In 
the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather,  eight,  one  being  half  merged 
in  the  wall;  in  some  of  these  are  riiiRS  for  the  fetters  and  the  fet- 
tered: in  the  pavement  the  steps  of  Bonnivard  have  left  thtir  traces 
—he  was  confined  here  several  years. 

It  is  by  this  castle  that  Rousseau  has  fixed  the  catastrophe  of  his 
Heioise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  children  by  Julie  from  the 
water;  the  shock  of  which,  and  the  illness  produced  by  the  immer- 
sion, is  the  cause  of  her  death. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a  great  distance. 
The  walls  are  white. 


♦it 


Ht 


168 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON, 


•f 


I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food: 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunter's  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care: 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
"Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat, 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captive's  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den: 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side; 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head. 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead — 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corpse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — ^it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought. 
That  even  in  death  his  free-bom  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd — and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turness  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant. 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 

VITI. 

But  he,  tlie  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish "d  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr' d  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  with  or' d  on  the  stalk  away. 

O  God!  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood: — 

I've  seen  It  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 


r 


^ 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Strive  with  a  swoln  convulsive  motion, 

I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread: 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmix 'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak. 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb. 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray^ — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light. 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot — 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — ^lost 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most; 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness. 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less: 

I  listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 

I  call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rush'd  to  him: — I  found  him  not; 

/only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 

J  only  lived — /only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 

The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink. 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race. 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath— 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe: 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 

Alas!  my  own  was  full  as  chill; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so, 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die, 
I  had  no  earthly  hope— but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 

IX, 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too: 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone. 


169 


^h 


f 


^^ 


4k 


+ 


170  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  Bhrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 

It  was  not  night — it  v.^as  not  day, 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight. 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness — without  a  place; 

There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 

No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime — 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

"Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless! 

X. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain —  . 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever'heard. 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd,  as  fond  and  tame. 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings. 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me  I 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more: 
It  seem'd,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate. 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate. 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink. 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine. 
But  knowing  well  captivity. 

Sweet  bird!  I  could  not  wish  for  thine! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought  I  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile — 
I  sometimes  dcem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew. 
And  then  'twas  mortal — well  I  knew. 


■il 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone- 
Lone— as  the  corpse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone— as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate,     * 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate, 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe, 
But  so  it  was: — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten 'd  did  remain, 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun. 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless^read 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 
My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick. 
And  ray  crush 'd  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 


171 


I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all. 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me: 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad. 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad: 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 
xiu. 
I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow: 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle,* 
♦  Betweervthe  entrances  of  the  Rhone  and  Villeneuve,  not  far  from 


*iir 


ii- 


4 


— — ^ 

172  THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view; 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor, 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing. 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
■   The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly. 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled— and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  ray  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again. 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save, 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise. 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where, 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me. 
Fetter' d  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus  when  they  appear'd  at  last, 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  growa 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  ownl 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  my  second  home: 
"With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade. 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play. 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  telll 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are: — even  I 
Regain' d  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 

Chillon,  is  a  very  small  island ;  the  only  one  I  could  perceive,  in  my 
voyage  round  and  over  the  lake,  within  its  circumference.  It  con- 
tains a  few  trees  (I  think  not  above  three),  and  from  its  singleness 
and  diminutive  siza  has  a  peculiar  effect  upon  the  view. 


I 


THE  DREAM. 


Our  life  is  twofold:  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed  \ 

Death  and  existence:  Sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  wakmg  toils, 
They  do  divide  our  being;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time. 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past — they  speak 
Like  sibyls  of  the  future;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will. 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows— Are  they  so? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow?    What  are  they? 
Creations  of  the  mind? — The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep— for  in  Itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

II. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such. 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base. 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs; — the  hill 
**       Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man: 

** — m^ 


* — 

174  THE  DREAM. 

These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 

Gazinj? — ^the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 

Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 

And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful: 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 

The  maid  "was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 

The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 

Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 

There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth. 

And  that  was  shining  on  him;  he  had  look'd 

Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers: 

She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 

But  trembled  on  her  words:  she  was  his  sight, 

For  his  eye  follow' d  hers,  and  saw  with  hers. 

Which  color' d  all  his  objects: — he  had  ceased 

To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts. 

Which  terminated  all:  upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share: 

Her  sighs  were  not  for  him;  to  her  he  was 

Even  as  a  brother— but  no  more;  'twas  much, 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 

Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him: 

Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honor'd  race. — It  was  a  nara^ 

Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and  why? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer— when  she  loved 

Another;  even  now  she  loved  another, 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  afar  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 

Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd: 

Within  an  antique  Oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake; — he  was  alone. 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro:  anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean'd 

His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 

With  a  convulsion — then  rose  again, 

And  Avith  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  teare. 

And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet:  as  he  paused. 

The  Lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there: 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 

She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved; — she  knew — 

For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge— that  his  heart 


4i- 


ih 


THE  DREAM. 

"Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 

That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

"Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded,  as  it  came: 

He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles;  he  pass'd 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 

And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way; 

And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more. 


175 


IV. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood:  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams;  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects;   he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all;  and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch' d  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruin'd  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain;  and  a  man. 
Clad  in  a  flowing  ^arb,  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around; 
■  And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky, 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful. 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 


V. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  One 
Who  did  not  love  her  better:— in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his — her  native  home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  Infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty— but  behold! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief. 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye. 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be?— she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish. 
Or  ill-represe'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be?— she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind— a  spectre  of  the  past. 


ii* 


176 


THE  DREAM. 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  retum'd. — I  saw  him  stand 

Before  an  Altar — with  a  gentle  bride; 

Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 

The  Starlight  of  his  Boyhood; — as  he  stood 

Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 

The  selfsame  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 

That  in  the  antique  Oratory  shook 

His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 

The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

"Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 

And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 

The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 

And  all  things  reel'd  around  him;  he  could  see 

Nor  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been- 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustom'd  hall, 

And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour. 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time? 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  Lady  of  his  love; — oh!  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;  her  mind 
Had  wander' d  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  thinffs;^^ 
And  forms  impalpable  and  imperceived 
Of  others'  sight  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy:  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real! 


A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 

The  Wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore, 

The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone. 

Or  were  at  wai*  with  him;  he  was  a  mark 

For  blight  and  desolation,  compass'd  round 

With  Hatred  and  Contention;  Pain  was  mix'd 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 

Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days. 

He  fed  on  poisons,  and  they  had  no  power. 

But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment;  he  lived 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 


*ih 


^h 


^K 


THE  DREAM. 


177 


And  made  him  friends  of  mountains:  with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  Spirit  of  the  Universe 

He  held  his  dialogues;  and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries; 

To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret.— Be  it  so. 


My  dream  is  past;  it  had  no  further  change.* 

It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality— the  one 

To  end  in  madness— both  in  misery. 


^}* 


■If- 


4 


THE  UMENI  OF  TASSO. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

At  Ferrara,  in  the  Library,  are  preserved  the  original  MSS.  of 
Tasso's  "Gierusalemme  "  and  ofGuarini's  *' Pastor  Fido,"  with 
letters  of  Tasso,  one  from  Titian  to  Ariosto,  and  the  inkstand  and 
chair,  the  tomb  and  house,  of  the  latter.  But,  as  misfortune  has  a 
greater  interest  for  posterity,  and  little  or  none  for  the  contempo- 
rary, the  cell  where  Tasso  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Anna 
attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than  the  residence  or  monument  of 
Ariosto — at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me.  There  are  two  inscrip- 
tions, one  on  the  outer  gate,  the  second  over  the  cell  itself,  inviting, 
unnecessarily,  the  wonder  and  the  i  ndignation  of  the  spectator.  Fer- 
rara is  much  decayed  and  depopulated:  the  castle  still  exists  entire; 
and  I  saw  the  court  where  Farisina  and  Hugo  were  beheaded,  ac- 
cording to  the  annr.l  of  Gibbon. 


*ii- 


♦^^ 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


Long  years!— It  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 

And  eagle-spirit  of  a  child  of  Song — 

Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong: 

Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude, 

And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood. 

When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 

Parches  the  heart;  and  the  abhorred  grate, 

Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 

Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain, 

With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain; 

And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  display'd 

Stands  scoffing  through  the  never  open'd  gate. 

Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day, 

And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  ate  alone 

Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone; 

And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 

Which  is  my  lair,  and — it  may  be — my  grave. 

All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear. 

But  must  be  borne.     I  stoop  not  to  despair; 

For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 

And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 

The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 

And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall: 

And  revell'd  among  men  and  things  divine, 

And  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 

In  honor  of  the  sacred  war  for  Him, 

The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven. 

For  He  has  strengthen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 

That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 

I  have  employ'd  my  penance  to  record 

How  Salem's  shrine  was  won  and  how  adored. 


♦*■ 


But  this  is  o'er — my  pleasant  task  is  done: — 

My  long-sustaing  friend  of  many  years! 

If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears. 

Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 

But  thou,  my  young  creation!  my  soul's  child! 

Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled, 


ii* 


180  THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 

And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  thy  Bweet  Bight, 

Thou  too  art  gone — and  so  is  my  delight: 

And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 

With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 

Thou  too  art  ended — what  is  left  me  now? 

For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear — and  how? 

I  know  not  that — but  in  the  innate  force 

Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 

I  have  not  sunk^  for  I  had  no  remorse, 

Nor  cause  for  such:  they  calPd  me  mad — and  why? 

0  Leonora!  wilt  not  thou  reply? 

1  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 
To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art; 
But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 

Not  less  because  I  suffer  it  unbent. 

That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind. 

Hath  been  the  sin  which  shuts  me  from  mankind; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will. 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful;  'tis  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

III. 

Above  me,  hark!  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  mind&  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark!  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy  foul. 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'erlabor'd  mind, 

And  dim  the  little  Tight  that  's  left  behind 

With  needless  tortiu-e,  as  their  tyrant  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill: 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have  pass'd: 

'Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  my  life  may  close: 

So  let  it  be — ^for  then  I  shall  repose. 


-if- 


I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet; 

I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget. 

But  it  revives — oh!  would  it  were  my  lot 

To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot! — 

Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 

In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes? 

Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind, 

Nor  words  a  language,  nor  even  men  mankind; 

Where  cries.reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 

And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell — 

For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes — 

Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall. 

Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods: — 


*-- 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO.  181 

While  all  can  hear,  none  heed  his  neighbor's  call — 
None!  save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all, 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 
Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here? 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men, 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career. 
Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear? 
Would  Inot  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again, 
And  teach  them  inward  Sorrow's  stifled  groan? 
The  struggle  to  be  calm,  and  cold  distress, 
Which  undermines  our  Stoical  success? 
No! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 
Have  pardon'd  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  Sister  of  my  Sovereign!  for  thy  sake 
I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest; 
Thy  brother  hates — but  I  can  not  detest; 
Thou  pitiest  not— but  I  cannot  forsake. 


Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 

But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  better  part, 

Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  ^lent  heart. 

As  dwells  the  gather 'd  lightning  in  its  cloud, 

Eucompass'd  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 

Till  struck — forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart! 

And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 

The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 

And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 

Flit  by  me; — they  are  gone — I  am  the  same. 

And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew; 

I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 

A  Princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard; 

I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 

SuflBcient  to  itself,  its  own  reward; 

And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alasl 

Were  punish'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 

And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 

Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine 

Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance  and  around 

Hallow'd  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground; 

Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  Love 

Had  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 

Thy  lineaments  in  a  beauty  that  dismay'd — 

Oh!  not  dismay'd — but  awed,  like  One  above! 

And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 

A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 

I  know  not  how — ^thy  genius  master'd  mine — 

My  star  stood  still  before  thee: — if  it  were 

Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design,  « 

That  sad  fatality  had  cost  me  dear; 

But  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 

Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me — but  for  thee. 

>« — — m* 


i -^ 

183  THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 

The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 
Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight;  and  for  the  rest, 
Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigor  to  sustain, 
And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast, 
And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  FaiiL. 

VI. 

It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love — which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 

Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waving  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hours. 

Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering;  and  the  Wise 

Shook  their  white  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made, 

And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  woe, 

And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow; 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep, 

But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 

Return'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 

The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 

With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain; 

And  the  whole  hear#  exhaled  into  One  Want, 

But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 

I  found  the  thing  I  sought— and  that  was  thee; 

And  then  I  lost  ray  being  all  to  be 

Absorbed  in  thine— the  world  was  pass'd  away — 

Thou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me! 

vn. 

I  loved  all  Solitude — but  little  thought 
To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 
From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 
The  maniac  and  his  tyrant; — had  I  been 
Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 
My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave. 
But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave? 
Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 
Than  the  wreck' d  sailor  on  his  desert  shore: 
The  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof, 
Although  'tis  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 


Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline, 
Bjit  with  a  sense  of  its  decay: — I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine, 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  l>elo# 

♦i ■ *- 


-i 


it 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO.  183 

The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free; 
But  much  to  One,  who  long  hath  suffer'd  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
And  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  Man, 
But  spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them — all  Earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me; — in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  Powers  of  Evil  can. 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  further— and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire? — because  I  loved? 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see. 
Was  more  or  le^  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 

IX. 

I  was  once  quick  in  feeling — that  is  o'er; — 

My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 

My  brain  against  these  bars,  as  the  sun  flash'd 

In  mockery  through  them; — If  I  bear  and  bore 

The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 

Which  hath  no  words, — 'tis  that  I  would  not  die 

And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 

Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  shame 

Stamp  Madness  deep  into  my  memory. 

Arid  woo  Compassion  to  a  blighted  name, 

Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 

No — it  shall  be  immortal! — and  I  maKe 

A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell. 

Which  nations  yet  ^all  visit  for  my  sake. 

While  thou,  Ferrara!  when  no  longer  dwell 

The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shall  fall  down, 

And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  hearthless  halls,   . 

A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown — 

A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown. 

While  strangers «vander  o'er  thy  unpeopled  walls! 

And  thou,  Leonora! — thou — who  wert  ashamed 

That  such  as  I  could  love — who  blush'd  to  hear 

To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be  dear, 

Go!  tell  thy  brother,  that  my  heart,  untamed 

By  grief,  years,  weariness — and  it  may  be 

A  taint  oi  that  he  would  impute  to  me, 

Irt-om  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this, 

Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss — 

Adores  thee  still; — and  add — that  when  the  towers 

And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 

Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel  are  forgot, 

Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose. 

This — ^this — shall  be  a  consecrated  spot! 

But  thou — when  all  that  Birth  and  Beauty  throws 

Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct — shalt  have 

One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 

No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 

As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 

Yes,  Leonora!  it  shall  be  our  fate 

To  be  entwined  for  ever— but  too  late! 

^ #* 


ii- 


MANFRED: 

A   DRAMATIC   POEM. 


'  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 


Jramatis    |)trgoua'. 


Mantbed. 

Chamois  Hunter. 

Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 


Witch  of  the  Alps. 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The  Destinies. 

Spirits,  &c. 


The  Scene  of  the  Drama  is  among  the  Higher  Alps— partly  in 
the  Castle  of  Manfred,  and  partly  in  the  Mountains. 


^it 


HJ . li- 


MANFRED. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

Manfeed  alone. — Scene,  a  Gothic  Gallery. — Time,  3Rdnighi. 

Man.  The  lamp  must  be  replenisli'd,  but  even  then 
It  will  not  burn  so  long  as  I  must  watch: 
My  slumbers — if  I  slumber — are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not;  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within;  and  yet  I  live,  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  men. 
But  grief  should  be  the  instructor  of  the  wise; 
Sorrow  is  knowledge:  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  not  that  of  Life. 
Philosophy  and  science,  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world, 
I  have  essay'd,  and  in  my  mind  there  is 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself — 
But  they  avail  not:  I  have  done  men  good, 
And  I  have  met  with  good  even  among  men — 
But  this  avail'd  not:— Good,  or  evil,  life, 
Powers,  passions,  all  I  see  in  other  beings. 
Have  been  to  me  as  rain  unto  the  sands, 
Since  that  all-nameless  hour.     I  have  no  dread, 
And  feel  the  curse  to  have  no  natural  fear, 
Nor  fluttering  throb,  that  beats  with  hopes  or  wishes. 
Or  lurking  love  of  something  on  the  earth. — 
Now  to  my  task. — 

Mysterious  Agency! 
Te  spirits  of  the  unbounded  Universe! 
Whom  I  have  sought  in  darkness  and  in  light — 
Ye,  who  do  compass  earth  about,  and  dwell 
In  subtler  essence — ye,  to  whom  the  tops 
Of  mountains  inaccessible  are  haunts, 
And  earth's  and  ocean's  caves  familiar  things — 
I  call  upon  ye  by  the  written  charm 

Which  gives  me  power  upon  you Rise!  appear! 

[A  pause. 


^f- 


186  MANFRED.  [act  i. 

They  come  not  yet. — Now  by  the  voice  of  him 

Who  is  the  first  among  you — by  this  si^n, 

Which  makes  you  tremble — by  the  claims  of  him  . 

Who  is  undying — Rise!  appearl Appear! 

[A  pause. 
If  it  be  so.— Spirits  of  earth  and  air, 
Ye  shall  not  thus  elude  me:  by  a  power 
Deeper  than  all  yet  urged,  a  tyrant-spell, 
Which  hath  its  birthplace  in  a  star  condemn'd, 
The  burning  wreck  of  a  demolish'd  world, 
A  wandering  hell  in  the  eternal  space; 
By  the  strong  curse  which  is  upon  my  soul, 
The  thought  which  is  within  me  and  around  me, 
I  do  compel  ye  to  my  will. — Appear! 

r  J.  star  is  seen  at  the  darker  end  of  the  gallery:   it  is 
^      stationary;  and  a  voice  is  heard  singing. 

First  Spirit. 

Mortal!  to  thy  bidding  bow'd, 
From  my  mansion  in  the  cloud, 
Which  the  breath  of  twilight  builds, 
And  the  summer's  sunlight  gilds 
With  the  azure  and  vermilion, 
Which  is  mix'd  for  my  pavilion; . 
Though  thy  quest  may  be  forbidden, 
On  a  star-beam  I  have  ridden; 
To  thine  adjuration  bow'd, 
Mortal!  be  thy  wish  avow'd! 

Voice  of  the  Second  Spirit. 
Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains: 

They  crown'd  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds, 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced. 

The  Avalanche  in  his  hand; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 
The  Glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onward  day  by  day; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  quiver  to  his  cavern'd  base — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou? 

Voice  of  the  Third  Spirit. 

In  the  blue  depth  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  wave  hath  no  strife, 
Where  the  wind  is  a  stranger. 

And  the  sea-snake  hath  life, 
Where  the  Mermaid  is  decking 

Her  green  hair  with  shells; 
Like  the  storm  on  the  surface 

Came  the  sound  of  thy  spells; 


♦»■ 


+ 


SCENE  I.]     .  MANFRED.  187 

O'er  my  calm  Hall  of  Coral 

The  deep  echo  roU'd — 
To  the  sjplrit  of  Ocean 

Thy  wishes  unfold! 

FouKTH  Spikit. 
Where  the  slumbering  earthquake 

Lies  pillow'd  on  fire, 
And  the  lakes  of  bitumen 

Rise  boilingly  higher; 
Where  the  roots  of  the  Andes 

Strike  deep  in  the  earth, 
As  their  summits  to  heaven 

Shoot  soaringly  forth; 
I  have  quitted  my  birthplace,  *t 

Thy  bidding  to  bide— 
Thy  spell  hath  subdued  me, 

Thy  will  be  my  guide! 

Fifth  Spirit. 
I  am  the  Rider  of  the  wind, 

The  Stirrer  of  the  storm; 
The  hurricane  I  left  behind 

Is  yet  with  lightning  warm; 
To  speed  to  thee,  o'er  shore  and  sea 

I  swept  upon  the  blast: 
The  fieet  I  met  sail'd  well,  and  yet 

'Twill  sink  ere  night  be  past. 

Sixth  Spirit. 
My  dwelling  is  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
Why  doth  thy  magic  torture  me  with  light? 

Seventh  Spirit. 

The  star  which  rules  thy  destiny 

Was  niled,  ere  earth  began,  by  me: 

It  was  a  world  as  fresh  and  fair 

As  e'er  revolved  round  sun  in  air; 

Its  course  was  free  and  regular. 

Space  bosom'd  not  a  lovelier  star. 

The  hour  arrived — and  it  became 

A  wandering  mass  of  shapeless  flame, 

A  pathless  comet,  and  a  curse, 

The  menace  of  the  universe: 

Still  rolling  on  with  innate  force. 

Without  a  sphere,  without  a  course, 

A  bright  deformity  on  high. 

The  monster  of  the  upper  sky! 

And  thou!  beneath  its  influence  bom — 

Thou  worm!  whom  I  obey  and  scorn — 

Forced  by  a  power  (which  is  not  thine. 

And  lent  thee  but  to  make  thee  mine) 

For  this  brief  moment  to  descend, 

Where  these  weak  spirits  round  thee  bend 

And  parley  with  a  thing  like  thee — 

What  wouldst  thou,  Cmld  of  Clayl  with  me? 


^h 


1S8 


MANFRED. 


[act  I, 


77ie  Seven  Spirits. 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  night,  mountains,  winds,  thy  star, 
Are  at  thy  beck  and  bidding,  Child  of  Clay! 

Before  thee  at  thy  quest  their  spirits  are — 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us,  son  of  mortals — say? 

Man.  Forgetfulness 

Mrst  /Spirit.  Of  what — of  whom — and  why? 

Man..  Of  that  which  is  within  me;  read  it  there — 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

Spirit.  We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess: 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole,  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators,  each  and  all, 
These  shall  be  thine. 

Ma7i.  Oblivion,  self-oblivion — 

Can  ye  not  wring  from  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  so  profusely  what  I  ask? 

Spirit.  It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill; 
But — thou  may'st  die. 

Man.  Will  death  bestow  it  on  me? 

Spirit.  We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget; 
We  are  eternal,  and  to  us  the  past  • 
Is  as  the  future,  present.     Art  thou  answer'd? 

3Ian.  Ye  mock  me — but  the  power  which  brought  ye  here 
Hath  made  you  mine.     Slaves,  scoff  not  at  my  willl 
The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 
The  lightning  of  my  being,  is  as  bright, 
Pervading,  and  far-darting  as  your  own. 
And  shall  not  yield  to  yours,  though  coop'd  in  clay! 
Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 

Spirit.  We  answer  as  we  answer'd;  our  reply 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 

Man.  WTiy  say  ye  so? 

Spirit.  If,  as  thou  say'st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee,  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  nought  to  do  with  us. 

Man.  I  then  have  call'd  ye  from  your  realms  in  vain; 
Ye  cannot,  or  yo  will  not,  aid  me. 

Spirit.                                              Say; 
What  we  possess  we  offer;  it  is  thine: 
Bethink  ere  thou  dismiss  us,  ask  again — 
Kingdom,  and  sway,  and  strength,  and  length  of  days 

Man.  Accursed!  what  have  Ito  do  with  days? 
They  are  too  long  already. — Hence — begone! 

Spirit.  Yet  pause:  being  here,  our  will  would  do  thee 
service; 
Bethink  thee,  is  there  then  no  other  gift 
Which  we  can  make  not  worthless  in  thine  eyes? 

Man.  No,  none;  yet  stay — one  moment,  ere  we  part — 
I  would  behold  ye  face  to  face.    I  hear 
Your  voices,  sweet  and  melancholy  sounds, 
As  music  on  the  waters;  and  I  see 
The  steady  aspect  of  a  clear  large  star; 


** 


4^ 


■iH 


SCENE  I.]  MANFRED.  189 

But  nothing  more.    Approach  me  as  ye  are, 
Or  one,  or  all,  in  your  accustom'd  forms. 

Spirit.  We  have  no  forms  beyond  the  elements 
Of  which  we  are  the  mind  and  principle: 
But  choose  a  form — in  that  w^e  will  appear. 

Man.  I  have  no  choice;  there  is  no  form  on  earth 
Hideous  or  beautiful  to  me.     Let  him, 
Who  is  most  powerful  of  ye,  take  such  aspect 
As  unto  him  may  seem  most  fitting— Come! 

Seventh  Spirit.    (Appearing   in    t/ie    shape   of  a    heautiful 
female  figure.)  Behold! 

Man.  O  God!  if  it  be  thus,  and  thou 

Art  not  a  madness  and  a  mockery, 
I  yet  might  be  most  happy.     I  will  clasp  thee, 

And  we  again  will  be [The  figure  vanishes. 

My  heart  is  crush'd. 

[Manfred /<zZZs  senseless. 

A  voice  is  heard  in  the  Incantation  which  follows. 

When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave, 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  grass, 
And  the  meteor  on  the  grave, 

And  the  wisp  on  the  morass; 
When  the  falling  stars  are  shooting, 
And  the  answer'd  owls  are  hooting. 
And  the  silent  leaves  are  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 
Shall  my  soul  be  upon  thine, 
With  a  power  and  with  a  sign. 

Though  thy  slumber  may  be  deep. 

Yet  thy  spirit  shall  not  sleep; 

There  are  shades  which  will  not  vanish. 

There  are  thoughts  thou  canst  not  banish; 

By  a  power  to  thee  unknown. 

Thou  canst  never  be  alone; 

Thou  art  wrapt  as  with  a  shroud, 

Thou  art  gather'd  in  a  cloud; 

And  forever  thou  shalt  dwell 

In  the  spirit  of  this  spell. 

Though  thou  seest  me  not  pass  by, 
Thou  shalt  feel  me  with  thine  eye 
As  a  thing  that,  though  imseen, 
Must  be  near  thee,  and  hath  been; 
And  when  in  that  secret  dread 
Thou  hast  tum'd  aroimd  thy  head, 
Thou  shalt  marvel  I  am  not 
As  thy  shadow  on  the  spot, 
And  the  power  which  thou  dost  feel 
Shall  be  what  thou  must  conceal. 

And  a  magic  voice  and  verse 
Hath  baptized  thee  with  a  curse; 
And  a  spirit  of  the  air 
Hath  begirt  thee  with  a  snare: 
In  the  wind  there  is  a  voice 
Shall. forbid  thee  to  rejoice; 


-t 


iH- 


^ ^ 

190  ItfANFRED.  [act  i. 

And  to  thee  shall  Night  deny 
All  the  quiet  of  her  sky; 
All  the  day  shall  have  a  sun, 
Which  shall  make  thee  wish  it  done. 

From  thy  false  tears  I  did  distil 

An  essence  which  hath  strength  to  kill; 

From  thy  own  heart  I  then  did  wring 

The  black  blood  in  its  blackest  spring; 

From  thy  own  smile  I  snatch 'd  the  snake, 

For  there  it  coil'd  as  in  a  brake; 

From  thy  own  lip  I  drew  the  charm 

Which  gave  all  these  their  chiefest  harm; 

In  proving  every  poison  known, 

I  found  the  strongest  was  thine  own. 

By  thy  cold  breast  and  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  guile, 

By  that  most  seeming  virtuous  eye. 

By  thy  shut  soul's  hypocrisy; 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art 

Which  pass'd  for  human  thine  own  heart; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain. 

And  all  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee!  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell! 

And  on  thy  head  I  pour  the  vial 

Which  doth  devote  thee  to  this  trial; 

Nor  to  slumber,  nor  to  die, 

Shall  be  in  thy  destiny; 

Though  thy  death  shall  still  seem  near 

To  thy  wish,  but  as  a  fear; 

Lol  the  spell  now  works  around  thee. 

And  the  dankless  chain  hath  bound  thee; 

O'er  thy  heart  and  brain  together 

Hath  the  word  been  pass'd — now  wither! 


T?ie  Mountain  of  the  Jungfrmi.—Time,  Morning. — Manfred  alone 
upon  the  Cliffs. 

Man.  The  spirits  I  have  raised  abandon  me — 
The  spells  which  I  have  studied  baflSe  me — 
The  remedy  I  reck'd  of  tortured  me; 
I  lean  no  more  on  superhuman  aid. 
It  hath  no  power  upon  the  past,  and  for 
The  future,  till  the  past  be  gulf 'd  in  darkness, 
It  is  not  of  my  search.— Mv  mother  Earth! 
And  thou  fresh  breaking  Day^  and  you,  ye  Mountains, 
Why  are  ye  beautifulv    I  cannot  love  ye. 
And  thou,  the  bright  eye  of  the  universe, 
That  openest  over  all,  and  unto  all 
Art  a  delight — thou  shin'st  not  on  my  heart. 
And  you,  ye  crags,  upon  whose  extreme  edge 
I  stand,  and  on  the  torrent's  brink  beneath 
Behold  the  tall  pines  dwindled  as  to  shrubs 

^^ fr^ 


ff ■ 

SCENE  II.]  MANFRED.  191 

In  dizziness  of  distance;  when  a  leap, 

A  stir,  a  motion,  even  a  breath,  would  bring 

My  breast  upon  its  rocky  bosom's  bed 

To  rest  forever — wherefore  do  I  pause? 

I  feel  the  impulse— yet  I  do  not  plunge; 

I  see  the  peril— yet  do  not  recede; 

And  my  brain  reels— and  yet  my  foot  is  firm: 

There  is  a  power  upon  me  which  withholds, 

And  makes  it  my  fatality  to  live; 

If  it  be  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre,  for  I  have  ceased 

To  justify  ray  deeds  unto  myself — 

The  last  infirmity  of  evil.    Ay, 

Thou  winged  and  cloud-cleaving  minister, 

[An  eagle  passes. 
"Whose  happy  flight  is  highest  into  heaven. 
Well  may'st  thou  swoop  so  near  me — I  should  be 
Thy  prey,  and  gorge  thine  eaglets;  thou  art  gone 
Where  the  eye  cannot  follow  thee;  but  thine 
Yet  pierces  downward,  onward,  or  above, 
With  a  pervading  vision. — Beautiful! 
How  beautiful  is  all  this  visible  world! 
How  glorious  in  its  action  and  itself  ! 
But  we,  who  name  ourselves  its  sovereigns,  we, 
Half  dust,  half  deity,  alike  unfit 
To  sink  or  soar,  with  our  mix'd  essence,  make 
A  conflict  of  its  elements,  and  breathe 
The  breath  of  degradation  and  of  pride. 
Contending  with  low  wants  and  lofty  will, 
Till  our  mortality  predominates. 
And  men  are — what  they  name  not  to  themselves. 
And  trust  not  to  each  other.    Hark!  the  note, 

[The  HJiepherd'spipe  in  iJie  distance  is  heard. 
The  natural  music  of' the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mix'd  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd; 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes. — Oh  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment — bom  and  dying 
With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me! 

Miter  from  below  a  Chamois  Hunteb. 

Chamois  Hunter.  Even  so. 

This  way  the  chamois  leapt:  her  nimble  feet 
Have  baflled  me;  my  gains  to-day  will  scarce 
Repay  my  break-neck  travail. — What  is  here? 
Who  seems  not  of  my  trade,  and  yet  hath  reach'd 
A  height  which  none  even  of  our  mountaineers, 
Save  our  best  hunters,  may  attain:  his  garb 
Is  goodly,  his  mien  manly,  and  his  air 
Proud  as  a  free-bom  peasant's,  at  this  distance — 
I  will  approach  him  nearer. 

Man.  (not perceiving  the  other.)  To  be  thus — 


* 


■ih 


192 


MANFRED. 


[act  I. 


Gray-hair'd  with  anguish,  like  these  blasted  pines, 

Wrecks  of  a  single  winter,  barkless,  branchless, 

A  blighted  trunk  upon  a  cursed  root, 

Which  but  supplies  a  feeling  to  decay — 

And  to  be  thus,  eternally  but  thus. 

Having  been  otherwise!    Now  furrow'd  o'er 

With  wrinkles,  plough'd  by  moments,  not  by  years 

And  hours — all  tortured  into  ages — hours 

Which  I  outlive! — Ye  toppling  crags  of  ice! 

Ye  avalanches,  whom  a  breath  draws  down 

In  mountainous  o'erwhelming,  come  and  crush  me! 

I  hear  ye  momently  above,  beneath, 

Crash  with  a  frequent  conflict;  but  ye  pass, 

And  only  fall  on  things  that  still  would  live; 

On  the  young  flourishing  forest,  or  the  hut 

And  hamlet  of  the  harmless  villager. 

C.  Hun,  The  mists  begin  to  rise  from  up  the  valley; 
I'll  warn  him  to  descend,  or  he  may  chance 
To  lose  at  once  his  way  and  life  together. 

Man.  The  mists  boil  up  around  the  glaciers;  clouds 
Rise  curling  fast  beneath  me,  white  and  sulphury. 
Like  foam  from  the  roused  ocean  of  deep  Hell, 
Whose  every  wave  breaks  on  a  living  shore, 
Heap'd  with  the  damn'd  like  pebbles. — ^I  am  giddy. 

C.  Hun.  I  must  approach  him  cautiously;  ii  near, 
A  sudden  step  will  startle  him,  and  he 
Seems  tottering  already. 

Man.  Mountains  have  fallen. 

Leaving  a  gap  in  the  clouds,  and  with  the  shock 
Rocking  their  Alpine  brethren;  filling  up 
The  ripe  green  valleys  with  destruction's  splinters; 
Damming  the  rivers  with  a  sudden  dash, 
Which  crush'd  the  waters  into  mist,  and  made 
Their  fountains  find  another  channel— Thus, 
Thus,  in  its  old  age,  did  Moun^  Rosenberg- 
Why  stood  I  not  beneath  it? 

C.  Hun.  Friend!  have  a  care. 

Your  next  step  may  be  fatal: — for  the  love 
Of  Him  who  made  you,  stand  not  on  that  brink! 

Man.  {not  hearing  him.)  Such  would  have  been  for  me  a 
fitting  tomb; 
My  bones  had  then  been  quiet  in  their  depth: 
They  had  not  then  been  strewn  upon  the  rocks 
For  the  wind's  pastime — as  thus— thus  they  shall  be — 
In  this  one  plunge. — Farewell,  ye  opening  heavens! 
Look  not  upon  me  thus  reproachfully — 
You  were  not  meant  for  me — Earth  I  take  these  Atoms  1 

[As  Manpbed  is  in  act  to  spring  from  Vie  cliff,  the  Chamois 
HuNTKB  seizes  and  retains  him  with  a  sudden  graxp. 

C.  Hun.  Hold,  madman!— though  aweary  of  thy  life, 
Stain  not  our  pure  vales  with  thy  guilty  blood — 
Away  with  me 1  will  not  quit  my  hold. 

Man.  1  am  most  sick  at  heart — nay,  grasp  me  not — 
I  am  all  feebleness — ^the  mountains  whirl 
Spinning  around  me — I  grow  blind— What  art  thou? 


ih 


^K 


i 


ii- 


^h 


SCENE  I.]  MANFRED.  1 

C.  Hun.    I'll  answer  that  anon. — Away  with  me 

The  clouds  grow  thicker there — now  lean  on  me — 

Place  your  foot  here — here,  take  this  staff,  and  cling 
A  moment  to  that  shrub — now  give  me  your  hand, 
And  hold  fast  by  my  girdle — softly — well — 
The  Chalet  will  be  gain'd  Avithin  an  hour — 
Come  on,  we'll  quickly  find  a  surer  footing. 
And  something  like  a  pathway,  which  the  torrent 
Hath  wash'd  since  winter. — Come,  'tis  bravely  done — 
You  should  have  been  a  hunter. — Follow  me. 

[As  they  descend  the  rocks  with  difficulty,  the  scene  closes. 


ACT  n. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Cottage  among  the  Bernese  Alps. — Manfred  and  the  Chamois 

HUNTEB. 

C.  Hun.  No,  no— yet  pause — thou  must  not  yet  go  forth: 
Thy  mind  and  body  are  alike  unfit 
To  trust  each  other,  for  some  hours  at  least; 
When  thou  art  better,  I  will  be  thy  guide — 
But  whither? 

Man.  It  imports  not:  I  do  know 

My  route  full  well,  and  need  no  further  guidance. 

C.  Hun.  Thy  garb  and  gait  bespeak  thee  of  high  lineage — 
One  of  the  many  chiefs,  whose  castled  crags 
Look  o'er  the  lower  valleys — which  of  these 
May  call  thee  lord?    I  only  know  their  portals; 
My  way  of  life  leads  me  but  rarely  down 
To  bask  by  the  huge  hearths  of  those  old  halls, 
Carousing  with  the  vassals;  but  the  paths 
Which  step  from  out  our  mountains  to  their  doors, 
I  know  from  childhood — which  of  these  is  thine? 

Man.  No  matter. 

C.  Hun.  Well,  sir,  pardon  me  the  question, 

And  be  of  better  cheer.    Come,  taste  my  wine; 
'Tis  of  an  ancient  vintage;  many  a  day 
'T  has  thaw'd  my  veins  among  our  glaciers,  now 
Let  it  do  thus  for  thine. — Come  pledge  me  fairly. 

Man.  Away,  away!  there  's  blood  upon  the  brim! 
Will  it  then  never — never  sink  in  the  earth? 

C.  Hu7i.Wha.t  dost  thou  mean?  thy  senses  wander  from  thee. 

Man.  I  say  'tis  blood — my  blood!  the  pure  warm  stream 
Which  ran  in  the  veins  of  my  fathers,  and  in  ours 
When  we  were  in  our  youth,  and  had  one  heart, 
And  loved  each  other  as  we  should  not  love. 
And  this  was  shed:  but  still  it  rises  up. 
Coloring  the  clouds  that  shut  me  out  from  heaven. 
Where  thou  art  not — and  I  shall  never  be. 

C.Hun.MsLn  of  strange  words,and  some  half-maddening  sin, 
Which  makes  thee  people  vacancy,  whate'er 
Thy  dread  and  sufferance  be,  there  's  comfort  yet — 
The  aid  of  holy  men,  and  heavenly  patience 

Man.  Patience  and  patience!  Hence— that  word  was  made 

I 


f 


*- 

194  MANFRED.  [act  n. 

For  brutes  of  burden,  not  for  birds  of  prey; 
Preach  it  to  mortals  of  a  dust  like  thine — 
I  am  not  of  thine  order. 

G.  Hun.  Thanks  to  Heaven! 

I  would  not  be  of  thine  for  the  free  fame 
Of  William  Tell:  but  whatsoe'er  thine  ill, 
It  must  be  borne,  and  these  wild  starts  are  useless. 
Man.  Do  I  not  bear  it? — Look  on  me— I  live. 
C.  Hun.  This  is  convulsion,  and  no  healthful  life. 
Man.  I  tell  thee,  man!  I  have  lived  many  years, 
Many  long  years,  but  they  are  nothing  now 
To  those  which  I  must  number:  ages— ages — 
Space  and  eternity — and  consciousness. 
With  the  fierce  thirst  of  death— and  still  unslaked! 
G.  Hun.  Why,  on  thy  brow  the  seal  of  middle  age 
Hath  scarce  been  set;  I  am  thine  elder  far. 

Man.  Think'st  thou  existence  doth  depend  on  time? 
It  doth;  but  actions  are  our  epochs:  mine 
Have  made  my  days  and  nights  imperishable, 
Endless,  and  all  alike,  as  sands  on  the  shore. 
Innumerable  atoms;  and  one  desert, 
Barren  and  cold,  on  which  the  wild  waves  break, 
But  nothing  rests,  save  carcasses  and  wrecks, 
Rocks,  and  the  salt-surf  weeds  of  bitterness. 

G.  Hun.  Alas!  he's  mad— but  yet  I  must  not  leave  him. 
Man.  I  would  I  were— for  then  the  things  I  see 
Would  be  but  a  distemper'd  dream. 

G.  Hun.  What  is  it 

That  thou  dost  see,  or  think  thou  look'st  upon? 

Man.  Myself,  and  thee — a  peasant  of  the  Alps — 
Thy  humble  virtues,  hospitable  home. 
And  spirit  patient,  pious,  proud,  and  free; 
Thy  self-respect,  grafted  on  innocent  thoughts; 
Thy  days  of  health,  and  nights  of  sleep;  thy  toils, 
By  danger  dignified,  yet  guiltless;  hopes 
Of  cheerful  old  age  and  a  quiet  grave. 
With  cross  and  garland  over  its  green  turf, 
And  thy  grandchildren's  love  for  epitaph; 
This  do  Isee— And  then  I  look  within — 
It  matters  not — my  soul  was  scorch'd  already! 

G.Hun.  And  wouldst  thou  then  exchange  thy  lot  for  mine? 
Man.  No,  friend!  I  would  not  wrong  thee,  nor  exchange 
My  lot  with  living  being:  I  can  bear — 
However  wretchedly,  'tis  still  to  bear — 
In  life  what  others  could  not  brook  to  dream, 
But  perish  in  their  slumber. 

G.  Hun.  And  with  this — 

This  cautious  feeling  for  another's  pain, 
Canst  thou  be  black  with  evil? — say  not  so. 
Can  one  of  gentle  thoughts  have  wreak'd  revenge 
Upon  his  enemies? 

Man.  Oh!  no,  no,  no! 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  loved  me — 
On  those  whom  I  best  loved:  I  never  quell'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  ju'^t  defence — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal! 
G.  Hun.  Heaven  give  thee  rest! 


^K 


4 


ii* 


•f 


SCENE  II.]  MANFRED.  196 

And  penitence  restore  thee  to  thyself: 
My  prayers  shall  be  for  thee. 

3mn.  I  need  them  not, 

But  can  endure  thy  pity.     I  depart — 
'Tis  time — farewell! — Here's  gold  and  thanks  for  thee — 
No  words — it  is  thy  due. — Follow  me  not, 
I  know  my  path — the  mountain  peril's  past: — 
And  once  agaih,  I  charge  thee,  follow  not! 

[Uxit  Manfkbd. 


A  lower  Valley  in  the  Alps. — A  Cataract. 
Enter  Manfred. 
It  is  not  noon— the  sunbow's  rays  still  arch* 
The  torrent  with  the  many  hues  of  heaven, 
And  roll  the  sheeted  silver's  waving  column 
O'er  the  crag's  headlong  perpendicular, 
And  fling  its  lines  of  foaming  light  along, 
And  to  and  fro,  like  the  pale  courser's  tail, 
The  Giant  steed,  to  be  bestrode  by  Death, 
^     As  told  in  the  Apocalypse.    No  eyes 

But  mine  now  drink  this  sight  of  loveliness; 
I  should  be  sole  in  this  sweet  solitude. 
And  with  the  Spirit  of  the  place  divide 
The  homage  of  these  waters. — I  will  call  her. 
[Manfred  takes  some  of  the  water  into  the  palm  of  his  handy 
and  flings  it  in  the  air,  muttering  the  adjuration.    After  a 
pause  the  Witch  of  the  Alps  rises  beneath  tJie  arch  of  the 
smibow  of  the  torrent. 

Beautiful  Spirit!  with  thy  hair  of  light. 

And  dazzling  eyes  of  glory,  in  whose  form 

The  charms  of  earth's  least  mortal  daughters  grow 

To  an  unearthly  stature,  in  an  essence 

Of  purer  elements;  while  the  hues  of  youth — 

Carnation'd  like  a  sleeping  infant's  cheek, 

Rock'd  by  the  beating  of  her  mother's  heart. 

Or  the  rose  tints,  which  summer's  twilight  leaves 

Upon  the  lofty  glacier's  vir^n  snow. 

The  blush  of  earth,  embracmg  with  her  heaven — 

Tinge  thy  celestial  aspect,  and  make  tame 

The  beauties  of  the  sunbow  which  bends  o'er  thee. 

Beautiful  Spirit!  in  thy  calm  clear  brow, 

Wherein  is  glass' d  serenity  of  soul, 

Which  of  itself  shows  immortality, 

I  read  that  thou  wilt  pardon  to  a  Son 

Of  Earth,  whom  the  abstruser  powers  permit 

At  times  to  commune  with  them — if  that  he 

Avail  him  of  his  spells — to  call  thee  thus, 

And  gaze  on  thee  a  moment. 

Witch.  Son  of  Earth! 

I  know  thee,  and  the  powers  which  give  thee  power; 
I  know  thee  for  a  man  of  many  thoughts, 

*  This  iris  is  formed  by  the  rays  of  the  sun  over  the  lower  part  of 
the  Alpine  torrents;  it  is  exactly  like  a  rainbow  come  down  to  pay 
a  visit,  and  so  close  that  you  maj  walk  into  it.  This  effect  lasts  till 
tioon. 


196  MANFRED.  [act  ii. 

And  deeds  of  good  and  ill,  extreme  in  both, 

Fatal  and  fated  in  thy  sufferings. 

I  have  expected  this — what  wouldst  thou  with  me? 

Man.  To  look  upon  thy  beauty — nothing  further. 
The  face  of  the  earth  hath  madden'd  me,  and  I 
Take  refuge  in  her  mysteries,  and  pierce 
To  the  abodes  of  those  who  govern  her — 
But  they  can  nothing  aid  me.     I  have  sought 
From  them  what  they  could  not  bestow,  and  now 
I  search  no  further. 

Witch.  "What  could  be  the  quest 

Which  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  most  powerful, 
The  rulers  of  the  invisible? 

Man.  A  boon; 

But  why  should  I  repeat  it?  'twere  in  vain. 

Witch.  I  know  not  that;  let  thy  lips  utter  it. 

Man.  Well,  though  it  torture  me,  'tis  but  the  same; 
My  pang  shall  find  a  voice.    From  my  youth  upwards 
My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine, 
The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine;  " 

My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger;  though  I  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 
Nor  'midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one,  who but  of  her  anon. 

I  said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 

I  held  but  slight  communion;  but  instead. 

My  joy  was  in  the  Wilderness,  to  breathe 

The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top. 

Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 

Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite;  or  to  plunge 

Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 

On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 

Of  river-stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow. 

In  these  my  early  strength  exulted;  or 

To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 

The  stars  and  their  development;  or  catch 

The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim; 

Or  to  look,  list'ning,  on  the  scatter'd  leaves. 

While  Autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 

These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone; 

For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one — 

Hating  to  be  so — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 

I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them. 

And  was  all  clay  again.    And  then  I  dived, 

In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death. 

Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect;  and  drew 

From  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap'd  up  dust, 

Conclusions  most  forbidden.    Then  I  pass'd 

The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught. 

Save  in  the  old  time;  and  with  time  and  toil, 

And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 

As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air. 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth. 

Space,  and  the  peopled  Infinite,  I  made 

-I 


SCENE  II.]  MANFRED.  197 

Mine  eyes  familiar  with  Eternity, 

Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,*  at  Gadara, 

As  I  do  thee;— and  with  my  knowledge  grew 

The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence,  until 

Witch.  Proceed,  y 

Man.  '  Oh!  I  but  thus  prolong'd  my  words, 

Boasting  these  idle  attributes,  because 

As  I  approach  the  core  of  my  heart's  grief 

But  to  my  task.     I  have  not  named  to  thee 
Father  or  mother,  mistress,  friend,  or  being, 
With  whom  I  wore  the  chain  of  human  ties; 
If  I  had  such,  they  seem'd  not  such  to  me — 
Yet  there  was  one 

Witch.  Spare  not  thyself — proceed. 

Man.  She  was  like  me  in  lineaments — her  eyes. 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all,  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine; 
But  soften'd  all,  and  temper'd  into  beauty: 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe:  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 
Pity,  and  smiles,  and  tears — which  I  had  not; 
And  tenderness — but  that  I  had  for  her; 
Humility — and  that  I  never  had. 
Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were  her  own — 
I  loved  her,  and  destroy 'd  her! 

Witch.  With  thy  hand? 

Ma7i.  Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart,  which  broke  her  heart; 
It  gazed  on  mine,  and  wither'd.    I  have  shed 
Blood,  but  not  hers — and  yet  her  blood  was  shed — 
I  saw — and  could  not  stanch  it. 

Witch.  And  for  this — 

A  being  of  the  race  thou  dost  despise, 
The  order  which  thine  own  would  rise  above, 
Mingling  with  us  and  ours,  thou  dost  forego 
The  gifts  of  our  great  knowledge  and  shrink' st  back 
To  recreant  mortality ^Away! 

3fan.  Daughter  of  Air!  I  tell  thee,  since  that  hour — 
But  words  are  breath — look  on  me  in  my  sleep, 
Or  watch  my  watchings— Come  and  sit  by  me  I 
My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more. 
But  peopled  with  the  Furies; — I  have  gnash'd 
My  teeth  in  darkness  till  returning  morn. 
Then  cursed  myself  till  sunset; — I  have  pray'd 
For  madness  as  a  blessing — 'tis  denied  me. 
I  have  affronted  death — but  in  the  war 
Of  elements  the  waters  shrunk  from  me. 
And  fatal  things  pass'd  harmless — ^the  cold  hand 
Of  an  all-pitiless  demon  held  me  back. 
Back  by  a  single  hair,  which  would  not  break. 

*  The  philosopher  Jamblicus.    The  story  of  the  raising  of  Eros 
and  Anteros  may  be  found  in  his  Life  by  Eunapius.    It  is  well  told. 


«- 


^t 


198 


MANFRED. 


[act  II. 


In  fantasy,  imagination,  all 
The  affluence  of  my  soul — which  one  day  was 
A  Croesus  in  creation— I  plunged  deep. 
But,  like  an  ebbing  wave,  it  dash'd  me  back 
Into  the  gulf  of  my  unfathom'd  thought. 
I  plunged  amidst  mankind — ^Forgetfulness 
I  sought  in  all,  save  where  'tis  to  be  found, 
And  that  I  have  to  leatn — my  sciences, 
My  long  pursued  and  superhuman  art, 
Is  mortal  here— I  dwell  in  my  despair — 
And  live— and  live  forever. 

Witch.  It  may  be 

That  I  can  aid  thee. 

Man.  To  do  this,  thy  power 

Must  wake  the  dead,  or  lay  me  low  with  them. 
Do  so — in  any  shape — in  any  hour — 
With  any  torture— so  it  be  the  last. 

Witch.  That  is  not  in  my  province;  but  if  thou 
Wilt  swear  obedience  to  my  will,  and  do 
My  bidding,  it  may  help  thee  to  thy  wishes. 

Man.  I  will  not  swear — Obey?  and  whom?  the  spirits 
Whose  presence  I  command,  and  be  the  slave 
Of  those  who  served  me — Neverl 

Witch.  Is  this  all? 

Hast  thou  no  gentler  answer? — Yet  bethink  thee, 
And  pause  ere  thou  rejectest. 

Man.  I  have  said  it. 

Witch.  Enough! — I  may  retire  then — say! 

Man.  Retire! 

[The  Witch  disappears. 

Man.  {alone.)  We  are  the  fools  of  time  and  terror:  days 
Steal  on  us  and  steal  from  us;  yet  we  live, 
Loathing  our  life,  and  dreading  still  to  die. 
In  all  the  days  of  this  detested  yoke — 
This  vital  weight  upon  the  struggling  heart, 
Which  sinks  with  sorrow,  or  beats  quick  with  pain, 
Or  joy  that  ends  in  agony  or  faintness — 
In  all  the  days  of  past  and  future,  for 
In  life  there  is  no  present,  we  can  number 
How  few — how  less  than  few — wherein  the  soul 
Forbears  to  pant  for  death,  and  yet  draws  back 
As  from  a  stream  in  winter,  though  the  chill 
Be  but  a  moment's.     I  have  one  resource 
Still  in  my  science — I  can  call  the  dead, 
And  ask  them  what  it  is  we  dread  to  be: 
The  sternest  answer  can  but  be  the  Grave, 
And  that  is  nothing — if  they  answer  not — 
The  buried  Prophet  answer'd  to  the  Hag 
Of  Endor;  and  the  Spartan  Monarch  drew 
From  the  Byzantine  maid's  unsleeping  spirit 
An  answer  and  his  destiny — he  slew 
That  which  he  loved,  unknowing  what  he  slew. 
And  died  unpardon'd — though  he  call'd  in  aid 
The  Phyxian  Jove,  and  in  Phiga'ia  roused 
The  Arcadian  Evocators  to  compel 
The  indignant  shadow  to  depose  her  wrath 
Or  fix  her  term  of  vengeance — she  replied 


r 


SCENE  in.] 


MANFRED. 


4 


199 


In  words  of  dubious  import,  but  fulfiU'd.* 

If  I  had  never  lived,  that  which  I  love 

Had  still  been  living;  had  I  never  loved. 

That  which  I  love  would  still  be  beautiful — 

Happy  and  giving  happiness.     What  is  she? 

What  is  she  now? — a  suilerer  for  my  sins — 

A  thing  I  dare  not  think  upon — or  nothing. 

Within  few  hours  I  shall  not  call  in  vain — 

Yet  in  this  hour  I  dread  the  thing  I  dare: 

Until  this  hour  I  never  shrunk  to  gaze 

On  spirit,  good  or  evil — now  I  tremble, 

And  feel  a  strange  cold  thaw  upon  my  heart. 

But  I  can  act  even  what  I  most  abhor, 

And  champion  human  fears. — The  night  approaches.  [Exit. 


The  Summit  of  the  Jungfrau  Mountain. 
Enter  First  Destiny. 
The  moon  is  rising  broad,  and  round,  and  bright; 
And  here  on  snows,  where  never  human  foot 
Of  common  mortal  trod,  we  nightly  tread, 
And  leave  no  traces;  o'er  the  savage  sea, 
The  glassy  ocean  of  the  mountain  ice. 
We  skim  its  rugged  breakers,  which  put  on 
The  aspect  of  a  tumbling  tempest's  foam. 
Frozen  in  a  moment — a  dead  whirlpool's  image: 
And  this  most  steep  fantastic  pinnacle, 
The  fretwork  of  some  earthquake — where  the  cldtlds 
Pause  to  repose  themselves  in  passing  by — 
Is  sacred  to  our  revels,  or  our  vigils; 
Here  do  I  wait  my  sisters,  on  our  way 
To  the  Hall  of  Arimanes,  for  to-night 
Is  our  great  festival — 'tis  strange  they  come  not. 

A  Voice  without,  singing. 
The  Captive  Usurper, 

Hurl'd  down  from  the  throne, 
Lay  buried  in  torpor. 
Forgotten  and  lone; 
I  broke  through  his  slumbers, 

I  shiver'd  his  chain, 
I  leagued  him  with  numbers — 
He  's  Tyrant  again! 
With  the  blood  of  a  million  he'll  answer  my  care. 
With  a  nation's  destruction — his  flight  and  despair. 

Second  Voice,  without. 
The  ship  sail'd  on,  the  ship  sail'd  fast. 
But  I  left  not  a  sail,  and  I  left  not  a  mast;  , 

There  is  not  a  plank  of  the  hull  or  the  deck, 

*  The  story  of  Pausanius,  king  of  Sparta  (who  commanded  the 
Greeks  at  the  battle  of  Platea,  and  afterwards  perished  for  an  at- 
tempt t)  betray  the  Lacedaemonians),  and  Cleonice.  is  told  in  Plu- 
tarch's Life  of  Cimon;  and  in  the  Laconics  of  Pansanias  the  soph- 
ist, in  his  description  of  Greece. 


Mh 


HEf- 


-ih 


200  MANFRED.  L^OT  n. 

And  there  is  not  a  wretch  to  lament  o'er  his  wreck, 

Save  one,  whom  I  held,  as  he  swam,  by  the  hair, 

And  he  was  a  subject  well  worthy  my  care; 

A  traitor  on  land,  and  a  pirate  at  sea — 

But  I  saved  him  to  wreak  further  havoc  for  me  I 

First  Destiny,  anmering. 

The  city  lies  sleeping; 

The  mom,  to  deplore  it, 
May  dawn  on  it  weeping: 

Sullenly,  slowly, 
The  black  plague  flew  o'er  it — 

Thousands  lie  lowly; 
Tens  of  thousands  shall  perish— 

The  living  shall  fly  from 
The  sick  they  shall  cherish; 

But  nothing  can  vanquish 
The  touch  that  they  die  from. 

Sorrow  and  anguish, 
And  evil  and  dread; 

Envelop  a  nation— 
The  blest  are  the  dead. 
Who  see  not  the  sight 

Of  their  own  desolation — 
This  work  of  a  night— 
This  wreck  of  a  realm — this  deed  of  my  doing — 
For  ages  I've  done,  and  shall  still  be  renewing  I 

Enter  tTie  Second  and  Third  Destinies. 
The  Three. 

Our  hands  contain  the  hearts  of  men. 

Our  footsteps  are  their  graves; 
We  only  give  to  take  again 

The  spirits  of  our  slaves! 

Mrst  Des.  Welcome! — Where  's  Nemesis? 
Secmd  Des.  At  some  great  work; 

But  what,  I  know  not,  for  my  hands  were  full. 
Third  Des.  Behold  she  cometh. 


Enter  Nemesis. 

First  Des.  Say,  where  hast  thou  been? 

My  sisters  and  thyself  are  slow  to-night. 

Nem.  I  was  detain'd  repairing  shatter'd  thrones, 
Marrying  fools,  restoring  dynasties. 
Avenging  men  upon  their  enemies. 
And  making  them  repent  then-  own  revenge; 
Goading  the  wise  to  madness;  from  the  dull 
Shaping  out  oracles  to  rule  the  world 
Afresh,  for  they  were  waxing  out  of  date. 
And  mortals  dared  to  ponder  for  themselves, 
To  weigh  kings  in  the  balance,  and  to  speak 
Of  freedom,  the  forbidden  fruit.— Away! 
We  have  outstay 'd  the  hour— mount  we  our  clouds! 

\ExewU. 


♦^^ 


^K 


SCENE  rv.] 


MANFRED. 


201 


The  HaU  of  Arimanes. — Arimanes  on  his  Throne,  a  Globe  of  Fire, 
surrounded  by  the  Spirits. 

Hymn  of  the  Spirits. 

Hail  to  our  Master! — Prince  of  Earth  and  Air! 

Who  walks  the  clouds  and  waters — in  his  hand 
The  sceptre  of  the  elements,  which  tear 

Themselves  to  chaos  at  his  high  command! 
He  breatheth — ^and  a  tempest  shakes  the  sea; 

He  speaketh — and  the  clouds  reply  in  thunder; 
He  gazeth — from  his  glance  the  sunbeams  flee; 

He  moveth — earthquakes  rend  the  world  asunder. 
Beneath  his  footsteps  the  volcanoes  rise; 

His  shadow  is  the  Pestilence;  his  path 
The  comets  herald  through  the  crackling  skies; 

And  planets  turn  to  ashes  at  his  wrath. 
To  him  War  offers  daily  sacrifice; 

To  him  Death  pays  his  tribute;  Life  is  his, 
With  all  its  infinite  of  agonies — 

And  his  the  spirit  of  whatever  is! 

Enter  tlie  Destinies  and  Nemesis. 

First  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes!  on  the  earth 
His  power  increaseth— both  my  sisters  did 
His  bidding,  nor  did  I  neglect  my  duty! 

Second  Des.  Glory  to  Anmanes!  we  who  bow 
The  necks  of  men,  bow  down  before  his  throne! 

Third  Des.  Glory  to  Arimanes!  we  await  his  nod! 

Nem.  Sovereign  of  Sovereigns!  we  are  thine, 
And  all  that  liveth,  more  or  less,  is  ours, 
And  most  things  wholly  so;  still  to  increase 
Our  power,  increasing  thine,  demands  our  care, 
And  we  are  vigilant. — Thy  late  commands 
Have  been  fulfill'd  to  the  utmost. 


Enter  Manfred. 

A  Spirit,  What  is  here? 

A  mortal! — Thou  most  rash  and  fatal  wretch, 
Bow  down  and  worship! 

SecoTid  Spirit.  I  do  know  the  man— 

A  Magian  of  great  power,  and  fearful  skill  I 

Third  Spirit.  Bow    down  and  worshi]^,  slave!— What, 
know'st  thou  not 
Thine  and  our  Sovereign? — Tremble,  and  obey! 

All  tJie  Spirits.  Prostrate  thyself,  and  thy  condemned  clay. 
Child  of  the  Earth!  or  dread  the  worst. 

Man.  I  know  it; 

And  yet  ye  see  1  kneel  tot. 

Fourth  Spirit.  'Twill  be  taught  thee. 

Man.  'Tis  taught  already; — many  a  night  on  the  earth, 
On  the  bare  ground  have  I  bow'd  down  my  face. 
And  strew'd  my  head  with  ashes;  I  have  known 
The  fulness  of  humiliation,  for 
I  sunk  before  my  vain  despair,  and  knelt 
To  my  own  desolation. 
I* 


■it^ 


^h 


* 


203 


MANFRED. 


[ACT  II. 


Fifth  Spirit,  Dost  thou  dare 

Refuse  to  Arimanes  on  his  throne 
What  the  whole  earth  accords,  beholding  not 
The  terror  of  his  Glory? — Crouch!  I  say. 

Man.  Bid  him  bow  down  to  that  which  is  above  him, 
The  overruling  Infinite — the  Maker 
Who  made  him  not  for  worship — let  him  kneel, 
And  we  will  kneel  together. 

The  Spirits.  Crush  the  worm! 

Tear  him  in  pieces! — 

First  Bes.  Hence!  Avaunt: — ^he'smine, 

Prince  of  the  Powers  invisible!  this  man 
Is  of  no  common  order,  as  his  port 
And  presence  here  denote;  his  sufferings 
Have  been  of  an  immortal  nature,  like 
Our  own;  his  knowledge,  and  his  powers  and  will, 
As  far  as  is  compatible  with  clay. 
Which  clogs  the  ethereal  essence,  have  been  such 
As  clay  hath  seldom  borne;  his  aspirations 
Have  been  beyond  the  dwellers  of  the  earth, 
And  they  have  only  taught  him  what  we  know — 
That  knowledge  is  not  happiness,  and  science 
But  an  exchange  of  ignorance  for  that 
Which  is  another  kind  of  ignorance. 
This  is  not  all — the  passions,  attributes 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  from  which  no  power,  nor  being. 
Nor  breath,  from  the  worm  upwards,  is  exempt, 
Have  pierced  his  heart;  and  in  their  consequence 
Made  him  a  thing,  which  I,  who  pity  not, 
Yet  pardon  those  who  pity.    He  is  mine, 
And  thine,  it  may  be — ^be  it  so,  or  not. 
No  other  Spirit  in  this  region  hath 
A  soul  like  his— or  power  upon  his  soul. 

Nem.  What  doth  he  here  then? 

First  Bes.  Let  him  answer  that. 

Man.  Ye  know  what  I  have  known;  and  without  power 
I  could  not  be  amongst  ye:  but  there  are 
Powers  deeper  still  beyond — I  come  in  quest 
Of  such,  to  answer  unto  what  I  seek. 

Nem.  What  wouldst  thou? 

Man.  Thou  canst  not  reply  to  me. 

Call  up  the  dead — my  question  is  for  them. 

Nem.  Great  Arimanes,  doth  thy  will  avouch 
The  wishes  of  this  mortal? 

Ari.  Yea. 

Nem.  Whom  wouldst  thou 

Unchamel? 

Man.  One  without  a  tomb — call  up 

Astarte. 

• 

Nemesis. 

Shadow!  or  Spirit! 

Whatever  thou  art, 
Which  still  doth  inherit 

The  whole  or  a  part 
Of  the  form  of  thy  birth. 

Of  the  mould  of  thy  clay, 


*^^ 


ii^ 


8CBNB  IT.] 


MANFRED. 


303 


Which  return'd  to  the  earth, 

Re-appear  to  the  day! 
Bear  what  thou  borest, 

The  heart  and  the  form, 
And  the  aspect  thou  worest 
Redeem  from  the  worm. 
Appear! — Appear ! — Appear! 
Who  sent  thee  there  requu-es  thee  here. 
[T?ie  Phantom  of  Astartb  rises  and  stands  in  the  midst. 

Man.  Can  this  be  death?  there  's  bloom  upon  her  cheek; 
But  now  I  see  it  is  no  living  hue, 
But  a  strange  hectic — like  the  unnatural  red 
Which  Autumn  plants  upon  the  perish'd  leaf. 
It  is  the  same!  0  God!  that  I  should  dread 
To  look  upon  the  same — Astarte! — No, 
I  cannot  speak  to  her — but  bid  her  speak — 
Forgive  me  or  condemn  me. 

Nemesis. 
By  the  power  which  hath  broken 

The  grave  which  enthrall'd  thee, 
Speak  to  him  who  hath  spoken, 

Or  those  who  have  call'd  thee. 

Man.  She  is  silent, 

And  in  that  silence  I  am  more  than  answer' d. 

Nem.  My  power  extends  no  further.     Prince  of  Airl 
It  rests  with  thee  alone— command  her  voice. 

Ari.  Spirit — obey  this  sceptre! 

A"em.  Silent  still! 

She  is  not  of  our  order,  but  belongs 
To  the  other  powers.    Mortal!  thy  quest  is  vain, 
And  we  are  baflOled  also. 

Man.  Hear  me,  hear  me — 

Astarte! — my  beloved!  speak  to  me: 
I  hare  so  much  endured — so  much  endure — 
Look  on  me!  the  grave  hath  not  changed  thee  more 
Than  I  am  changed  for  thee.     Thou  lovedst  me 
Too  much,  as  I  loved  thee:  we  were  not  made 
To  torture  thus  each  other,  though  it  were 
The  deadliest  sin  to  love  as  we  have  loved. 
Say  that  thou  loath'st  me  not— that  I  do  bear 
This  punishment  for  both— that  thou  wilt  be 
One  of  the  blessed— and  that  I  shall  die; 
For  hitherto  all  hateful  things  conspire 
To  bind  me  in  existence— in  a  life 
Which  makes  me  shrink  from  immortality — 
A  future  like  the  past.    I  cannot  rest. 
I  know  not  what  I  ask,,  nor  what  I  seek: 
I  feel  but  what  thou  art — and  what  I  am; 
And  I  would  hear  yet  once  before  I  perish 
The  voice  which  was  my  music — Speak  to  me! 
For  I  have  call'd  on  thee  in  the  still  night, 
Startled  the  slumbering  birds  from  the  hush'd  boughs, 
And  woke  the  mountain  wolves,  and  made  the  caves 
Acquainted  with  thy  vainly  echo'd  name, 
Which  answer'd  me — ^many  things  answer'd  me— 


t 


-it- 


2M 


1 


MANFRED. 


[act  ui. 


Spirits  and  men — but  thou  wert  silent  all. 
Yet  speak  to  me!    I  have  outwatch'd  the  stars, 
And  gazed  o'er  heaven  in  vain  in  search  of  thee. 
Speak  to  me!    I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeness. — Speak  to  me! 
Look  on  the  fiends  around— they  feel  for  me: 
I  fear  them  not,  and  feel  for  thee  alone — 
Speak  to  me!  though  it  be  in  wrath; — but  say — 
I  reck  not  what — but  let  me  hear  thee  once— 
This  once — once  more! 

Fhardom  of  Astarte.     Manfred! 

Man.  Say  on,  say  on — 

I  live  but  in  the  sound — it  is  thy  voice! 

Phan.  Manfred!  To-morrow  ends  thine  earthly  III3. 
Farewell! 

Man.         Yet  one  word  more — am  I  forgiven? 

PJian.  Farewell! 

Man.  Say,  shall  we  meet  again? 

Pkan.  Farewell! 

Man.  One  word  for  mercy!    Say,  thou  lovest  me. 

Phan.  Manfred!  \T?ie  Spirit  of  Astabte  disappears. 

Mm.  She's  gone,  and  will  not  be  recall'd; 

Her  words  will  be  fulflll'd.     Return  to  the  earth. 

A  Spirit.  He  is  convulsed — This  is  to  be  a  mortal, 
And  seek  the  things  beyond  mortality. 

AnotJier  Spirit.  "Yet,  see,  he  mastereth  himself,  and  makes 
His  torture  tributary  to  his  will. 
Had  he  been  one  of  us,  he  would  have  made 
An  awful  spirit. 

Nem.  Hast  thou  further  question 

Of  our  great  sovereign,  or  his  worshippers? 

Man.  None. 

Nem.  Then  for  a  time  farewell. 

Man.  We  meet  then!    Where?    On  the  earth? — 
Even  as  thou  wilt:  and  for  the  grace  accorded 
I  now  depart  a  debtor.    Fare  ye  well!  # 

{Exit  MANrRED. 

{Scene  closes.) 


^h 


ACT  III. 

J    SCENE    I. 

A  BaU  in  the  Castle  of  Manfred. — Manfred  and  Herman. 

Man   What  is  the  hour? 

Her.  It  wants  but  one  till  sunset, 

And  promises  a  lovely  twilight. 

Man.  Say, 

Are  all  things  so  disposed  of  in  the  tower 
As  I  directed? 

Her.  All,  my  lord,  are  ready: 

Here  is  the  key  and  casket. 

Man.  It  is  well: 

Thou  may'st  retire.  {Exit  Hermak. 


*♦ 


if* 


SCENE  I.] 


MANFRED. 


205 


Man.  {alone.)  There  is  a  calm  upon  me — 

Inexplicable  stillness  !  which  till  now 
Did  not  belong  to  what  I  knew  of  life. 
If  that  I  did  not  know  philosophy 
To  be  of  all  our  vanities  the  motiiest, 
The  merest  word  that  ever  fool'd  the  ear 
From  out  the  schoolman's  jargon,  I  should  deem 
The  golden  secret,  the  sought  "  Kalon,"  found, 
And  seated  in  my  soul.    It  will  not  last, 
But  it  is  well  to  have  known  it,  though  but  once : 
It  hath  enlarged  my  thoughts  with  a  new  sense, 
And  I  within  my  tablets  would  note  down 
That  there  is  such  a  feeling.    Who  is  there  ? 

Re-enter  Herman. 
Her.  My  lord,  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice  craves 
To  greet  your  presence. 

Enter  the  Abbot  of  St.  Maurice. 

Abbot.  Peace  be  with  Count  Manfred  I 

Man.  Thanks,  holy  father  !  welcome  to  these  walls ; 
Thy  presence  honors  them,  and  blesseth  those 
Who  dwell  within  them. 

Abbot.  Would  it  were  so.  Count  I— 

But  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee  alone. 

Man.  Herman,  retire. — What  would  my  reverend  guest  ? 

Abbot.  Thus,  without  prelude  ; — Age  and  zeal,  my  otRce, 
And  good  intent,  must  plead  my  privilege ; 
Our  near,  though  not  acquainted  neighborhood, 
May  also  be  my  herald.    Rumors  strange, 
And  of  unholy  nature,  are  abroad. 
And  busy  with  thy  name :  a  noble  name 
For  centuries :  may  he  who  bears  it  now 
Transmit  it  unimpair'd  I 

Man.  Proceed— I  listen. 

Abbot.  'Tis  said  thou  boldest  converse  with  the  things 
Which  are  forbidden  to  the  search  of  man ; 
That  with  the  dwellers  of  the  dark  abodes. 
The  many  evil  and  unheavenly  spirits 
Which  walk  the  valley  of  the  shade  of  death, 
Thou  communest.     I  know  that  with  mankind, 
Thy  fellows  in  creation,  thou  dost  rarely 
Exchange  thy  thoughts,  and  that  thy  solitude 
Is  as  an  anchorite's,  were  it  but  holy. 

Man.  And  what  are  they  who  do  avouch  these  things  ? 

Abbot.  My  pious  brethren— the  scared  peasantry — 
Even  thy  own  vassals — ^who  do  look  on  thee 
With  most  unc[uiet  eyes.    Thy  life  's  in  peril. 

Man.  Take  it. 

Abbot.  I  come  to  save,  and  not  destroy— 

I  would  not  pry  into  thy  secret  soul ; 
But  if  these  things  be  sooth,  there  still  is  time 
For  penitence  and  pity :  reconcile  thee 
With  the  true  church,  and  through  the  church  to  Heaven. 

Man.  I  hear  thee.    This  is  my  reply :  Whate'er 
I  may  have  been,  or  am,  doth  rest  between 
Heaven  and  myself. — I  shall  not  choose  a  mortal 


«-^ 


206  MANFRED.  [act  hi. 

To  be  my  mediator.    Have  I  simi'd 
Against  your  ordinances  ?  prove  and  punish  I 

Abbot.  My  son  1  I  did  not  spealc  of  punisliment, 
But  penitence  and  pardon ; — witli  tliyself 
Thie  choice  of  such  remains— and  for  the  last, 
Our  institutions  and  our  strong  belief 
Have  given  me  power  to  smooth  the  path  from  sin 
To  higher  hope  and  better  thoughts ;  the  first 
I  leave  to  Heaven— "  Vengeance  is  Mine  alone  I" 
So  saith  the  Lord,  and  with  all  humbleness 
His  servant  echoes  back  the  awful  word. 

Man.  Old  man  I  there  is  no  power  in  holy  men, 
Nor  charm  in  prayer— nor  purifying  form 
Of  penitence — nor  outward  look— nor  fast — 
Nor  agony— nor,  greater  than  all  these. 
The  innate  tortures  of  that  deep  despair. 
Which  is  remorse  without  the  fear  of  hell, 
But  all  in  all  sufficient  to  itself 
Would  make  a  hell  of  heaven — can  exorcise 
From  out  the  unbounded  spirit,  the  quick  sense   \ 
Of  its  own  sins,  wrongs,  sufferance,  and  revenge 
Upon  itself ;  there  is  no  future  pang 
Can  deal  that  justice  on  the  self-condemn'd 
He  deals  on  his  own  soul. 

Abbot.  All  this  is  well  • 

For  this  will  pass  away,  and  be  succeeded 
By  an  auspicious  hope,  which  shall  look  up 
With  calm  assurance  to  that  blessed  place, 
Which  all  who  seek  may  win,  whatever  be 
Their  earthly  errors,  so  they  be  atoned : 
And  the  commencement  of  atonement  is 
The  sense  of  its  necessity. — Say  on — 
And  all  our  church  can  teach  thee  shall  be  taught ;  ' 
And  all  we  can  absolve  thee  shall  be  pardon'd.   - 

Ifati.  When  Rome's  sixth  emperor  was  near  his  last, 
The  victim  of  a  self-inflicted  wound. 
To  shun  the  torments  of  a  public  death 
From  senates  once  his  slaves,  a  certain  soldier, 
With  show  of  loyal  pity,  would  have  stanch'd 
The  gushing  throat  with  his  officious  robe ; 
The  dying  Roman  thrust  him  back,  and  said- 
Some  empire  still  in  his  expiring  glance — 
"  It  is  too  late— is  this  fidelity  ?" 

Abbot.  And  what  of  this  V 

3fa7i.  I  answer  with  the  Roman — 

"  It  is  too  late  1' 

Abbot.  It  never  can  be  so. 

To  reconcile  thyself  with  thy  own  soul. 
And  thy  own  soul  with  Heaven.    Hast  thou  no  hope  ? 
'Tis  strange — even  those  who  do  despair  above, 
Yet  shape  themselves  some  fantasy  on  earth. 
To  which  frail  twig  they  cling,  like  drowning  men. 

3fan.  Ay — father  1  I  have  had  those  earthly  visions 
And  noble  aspirations  in  my  youth, 
To  make  my  own  the  mind  of  other  men, 
The  enlightener  of  nations ;  and  to  rise 
I  knew  not  whither— it  might  be  to  fall; 

♦A # 


♦41 


BCBITB  I.] 


MANFRED. 


207 


But  fall,  even  as  the  mountain-cataract, 

Which  having  leapt  from  its  more  dazzling  height, 

Even  in  the  foaming  strength  of  its  abyss, 

rWhich  casts  up  misty  columns  that  become 

Clouds  raining  from  the  re-ascended  skies,) 

Lies  low  but  mighty  still. — But  this  is  past, 

My  thoughts  mistook  themselves. 

Abbot.  And  wherefore  so? 

Man.  I  could  not  tame  my  nature  down;  for  he 
Must  serve  who  fain  would  sway — and  soothe — and  sue — 
And  watch  all  time — and  pry  into  all  place — 
And  be  a  living  lie — who  would  become 
A  mighty  thin^  amongst  the  mean,  and  such 
The  mass  are;  I  disdain'd  to  mingle  with 
A  herd,  though  to  be  leader — and  of  wolves. 
The  lion  is  alone,  and  so  am  I. 

Abbot.  And  why  not  live  and  act  with  other  men? 

Man.  Because  my  nature  was  averse  from  life; 
And  yet  not  cruel;  for  I  would  not  make, 
But  find  a  desolation: — ^like  the  wind. 
The  red-hot  breath  of  the  most  lone  simoom; 
Which  dwells  but  in  the  desert,  and  sweeps  o'er 
The  barren  sands  which  bear  no  shrubs  to  blast, 
And  revels  o'er  their  wild  and  arid  waves, 
And  seeketh  not,  so  that  it  is  not  sought. 
But  being  met  is  deadly;  such  hath  been 
The  course  of  my  existence;  but  there  came 
Things  in  my  path  which  are  no  more. 

Abbot.  Alas! 

I  'gin  to  fear  that  thou  art  past  all  aid 
From  me  and  from  my  calling;  yet  so  young, 
I  still  would 

Man.  Look  on  me!  there  is  an  order 

Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth,  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study — 
Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness — 
Some  of  disease — and  some  insanity — 
And  some  of  wither' d,  or  of  broken  hearts; 
For  this  last  is  a  malady  which  slays 
More  than  arenumber'd  in  the  lists  of  Fate, 
Taking  ^11  shapes,  and  bearing  many  names. 
Look  upon  me!  for  even  of  ail  these  things 
Have  I  partaken;  and  of  all  these  things. 
One  were  enough;  then  wonder  not  that  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  I  ever  was. 
Or  having  been,  that  I  am  still  on  earth. 

Abbot.   I  et  hear  me  still 

Man.  Old  man!  I  do  respect 

Thine  order,  and  revere  thy  years;  I  deem 
Thy  purpose  pious,  but  it  is  in  vain! 
Think  me  not  churlish;  I  would  spare  thyself, 
Far  more  than  me,  in  shunning  at  this  time 
All  further  colloquy — and  so — larewell.         [Exit  Manfred. 

Abbot.  This  should  have  been  a  noble  creature:  he 
Hath  all  the  energy  which  would  have  made 


-iK 


■^ ^ 

208  MANFRED.  [act  uu 

A  goodly  frame  of  glorious  elements, 

Had  they  been  wisely  mingled*  as  it  is, 

It  is  an  awful  chaos — light  and  darkness — 

And  mind  and  dust — and  passions  and  pure  thoughts, 

Mix'd,  and  contending  without  end  or  order, 

All  dormant  or  destructive:  he  will  perish, 

And  yet  he  must  not;  I  will  try  once  more. 

For  such  are  worth  redemption;  and  my  duty 

Is  to  dare  all  things  for  a  righteous  end. 

I'll  follow  him — but  cautiously,  though  Burely. 

[Exit  Abbot. 

SCENE  II. 

AnotTier  CJmmber. — Manfred  and  Herman. 

Her,  My  lord,  you  bade  me  wait  on  you  at  sunset: 
He  sinks  behind  the  mountain. 

Man.  Doth  he  so? 

I  will  look  on  him. 

[Manfred  advances  to  tJie  Window  of  the  HdU. 

Glorious  Orb!  the  idol 
Of  early  nature,  and  the  vigorous  race 
Of  undiseased  mankind,  the  giant  sons  * 
Of  the  embrace  of  angels,  with  a  sex 
More  beautiful  than  they,  which  did  draw  down 
The  erring  spirits,  who  can  ne'er  return. — 
Most  glorious  orb!  that  wert  a  worship,  ere 
The  mystery  of  thy  making  was  reveal'dl 
Thou  earliest  minister  of  the  Almighty, 
Which  gladden'd,  on  their  mountain  tops,  the  hearts 
Of  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  till  they  pour'd 
Themselves  in  orisons  I    Thou  material  God! 
And  representative  of  the  Unknown — 
Who  chose  thee  for  his  shadow!    Thou  chief  star! 
Centre  of  many  stars!  which  mak'st  our  earth 
Endurable,  and  temperest  the  hues 
And  hearts  of  all  who  walk  within  thy  rays! 
Sire  of  the  seasons!  Monarch  of  the  climes. 
And  those  who  dwell  in  them!  for  near  or  far, 
Our  inborn  spirits  have  a  tint  of  thee. 
Even  as  our  outward  aspects; — thou  dost  rise, 
And  shine,  and  set  in  glory.     Fare  thee  well!    • 
I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more.    As  my  first  glance 
Of  love  and  wonder  was  for  thee,  then  take 
My  latest  look:  thou  wilt  not  beam  on  one 
To  whom  the  gifts  of  life  and  warmth  have  been 
Of  a  more  fatal  nature.    He  is  gone: 
I  follow.  [Exit  Manfred. 

*  ••  And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  sons  of  Ood  saw  the  daughters  of 
men  that  they  were  lair,"  «S:c. — "There  were  priants  in  the  earth  in 
those  days;  and  also  after  that,  when  the  sons  of  Ood  came  in  unto 
the  daughters  of  men,  and  they  bare  children  to  them,  the  same 
became  mighty  men  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."— (?en€sis, 
vl.2^4. 


*i\ IH- 


■ih 


i 


SCENE  III.] 


MANFRED. 


SCENE  III. 


209 


The  Mountains — The  Castle  of  Manfred  at  some  distance — A  Terrace 
before  a  Tower. — Time,  Twilight. — Herman,  Manuel,  and 
other  Dependants  of  Manfred. 

Her.  'Tis  strange  enough:  night  after  night,  for  years, 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower. 
Without  a  witness.    I  have  been  within  it — 
So  have  we  all  been  oft-times:  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute,  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to.     To  be  sure,  there  is 
One  chamber  where  none  enter:  I  would  give 
The  fee  of  what  I  have  to  come  these  three  years, 
To  pore  upon  its  mysteries. 

Manuel.  'Twere  dangerous; 

Content  thyself  with  what  thou  know'st  already. 

Her.  Ah,' Manuel!  thou  art  elderly  and  wise, 
And  couldst  say  much;  thou  hast  dwelt  within  the  castle- 
How  many  years  is't?^ 

Manuel.  """Ere  Count  Manfred's  birth, 

I  served  his  father,  whom  he  nought  resembles. 

Her.  There  be  more  sons  in  like  predicament. 
But  wherein  do  they  differV 

Manuel.  I  speak  not 

Of  features  or  of  form,  but  mind  and  habits; 
Count  Sigismund  was  proud — but  gay  and  free— 
A  warrior  and  a  reveller;  he  dwelt  not 
With  books  and  solitude,  nor  made  the  night 
A  gloomy  vigil,  but  a  festal  time. 
Merrier  than  day;  he  did  not  walk  the  rocks 
And  forests  like  a  wolf,  nor  turn  aside 
From  men  and  their  delights. 

Her.  Beshrew  the  hour. 

But  those  were  jocund  times!    I  would  that  such 
Would  visit  the  old  walls  again;  they  look 
As  if  they  had  forgotten  them. 

Manuel.  These  walls 

Must  change  their  chieftain  first.     Oh!  I  have  seen 
Some  strange  things  in  them,  Herman. 

Her.  Come,  be  friendly; 

Relate  me  some  to  while  away  our  watch: 
I've  heard  thee  darkly  speak  of  an  event 
Which  happen'd  hereabouts,  by  this  same  tower. 

Manuel.  That  was  a  night  indeed!    I  do  remember 
'Twas  twilight,  as  it  may  be  now,  and  such 
Another  evening;— yon  red  cloud,  which  rests 
On  Eigher's  pinnacle,  so  rested  then — 
So  like  that  it  might  be  the  same;  the  wind 
Was  faint  and  gusty,  and  the  mountain  snows 
Began  to  glitter  with  the  climbing  moon; 
Count  Manfred  was,  as  now,  within  his  tower — 
How  occupied,  we  knew  not,  but  with  him 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings — her,  whom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  lived,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love — 


«- 


- 

ih 


■ih 


210 


MANFRED. 


[act  hi. 


As  he,  indeed,  by  blood  was  bound  to  do — 

The  Lady  Astarte,  his 

Hush!  who  comes  here? 


Unter  tJie  Abbot. 

Abbot.  Where  is  your  master? 

Ifer.  Yonder,  in  the  tower. 

Abbot.  I  must  speak  with  him. 

Manuel.  'Tis  impossible; 

He  is  most  private,  and  must  not  be  thus 
Intruded  on. 

Abbot.  Upon  myself  I  take 

The  forfeit  of  my  fault,  if  fault  there  be — 
But  I  must  see  him. 

Ber.  Thou  hast  seen  him  once 

This  eve  already. 

Abbot.  Herman!  I  command  thee, 

Knock,  and  apprise  the  Count  of  my  approach. 

Jler.  We  dare  not. 

Abbot.  Then  it  seems  I  must  be  herald 

Of  my  own  purpose. 

Manuel.  Reverend  father,  stop — 

I  pray  you  pause. 

Abbot.  Why  so? 

Manud.  But  step  this  way, 

And  I  will  tell  you  further.  [JSxeunt. 


Interior  of  t?ie  Towner. —Manfred  alotie. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 

Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful! 

I  linger  yet  with  nature,  for  the  night 

Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 

Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 

Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 

When  I  was  wandering — upon  such  a  night 

I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome; 

The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 

Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 

Shone  through  the  rents  of  rum;  from  afar 

The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber:  and 

More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 

The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 

Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 

Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 

Within  a  bowshot — where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 

And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements, 


4H- 


4k 


SCENE  IV,] 


MANFRED. 


211 


And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 

Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth; — 

But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 

A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection! 

While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 

Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 

And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 

All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 

Which  soften' d  down  the  hoar  austerity 

Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up. 

As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries; 

Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so. 

And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 

Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 

With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old! — 

The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 

Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'Twas  such  a  night! 
'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 


Enter  the  Abbot. 


Abbot.  My  good  lord  I 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness — all  it  hath  of  ill 
Recoils  on  me;  its  good  in  the  effect 
May  light  upon  your  head — could  I  say  Tieart — 
Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 
Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  hath  wander'd, 
But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  know'st  me  not! 

My  days  are  number' d,  and  my  deeds  recorded: 
Retire,  or  'twill  be  dangerous — Away! 

Abbot.    Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me? 

Man.  Not  I; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  mean? 

Man.  Look  there! 

What  dost  thou  see? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there,  I  say. 

And  steadfastly; — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 

Abbot.  That  which  should  shake  me, — but  I  fear  it  not — 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds;  he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me— but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

Man.  Thou  hast  no  cause — he  shall  not  harm  thee — but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy. 
I  say  to  thee — Retire! 


-^ 


4 


212  MANFRED.  [act  hi. 

Abbot.  And  I  reply — 

Never — ^till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend: — 
What  doth  he  here? — 

Man.  Why— ay — what  doth  he  here? — 

I  did  not  send  for  him — ^he  Is  unbidden. 

Abbot.  Alas!  lost  mortal!  what  with  quests  like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do?    I  tremble  for  thy  sake: 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him? 
Ah  I  he  unveils  his  aspect:  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 
Avaunt! — 

Man.        Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission? 

Spirit.  Come! 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  being?  answer! — speak! 

Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal. — Come!  'tis  time. 

Man.  I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.     Who  sent  thee  here? 

Spirit.  Thou'lt  know  anon — Come!  come! 

Man.  I  have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.     Get  thee  hence!  -^ 

Spirit.  Mortal!  thine  hour  is  come — Away!  I  say. 

Man.  I  knew,  and  know  m;^  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee: 
Away!  I'll  die  as  I  have  lived— alone. 

Spirit.  Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — Rise! 

[Other  Spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.  Avaunt!  ye  evil  ones! — Avaunt!  I  say — 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  ye  in  the  name 

Spirit.  Old  man!  ^ 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order; 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses, 
It  were  in  vain:  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away!  away! 

Man.  I  do  defy  ye — though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye; 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye — earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits;  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal! 

Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal? — Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life?  the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour;  that  I  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour. 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels;  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science — penance — daring — 
And  length  of  watching — strength  of  mind — and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers— when  the  earth 


^H■ 


.^_ ft^ 

SCENE  IV.]  MANFRED.  213 

Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy:  I  stand 
Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny — 
Spurn  back — and  scorn  ye! — 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee? 

Must  crimes  be  punish' d  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals! — Back  to  thy  hell! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that!  feel; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  tJiat  I  know: 
What  I  have  done  is  done;  I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine: 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself  • 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end —  i 

And  its  own  place  and  time — its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without; 
But  is  absorb 'din  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt  me; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter. — Back,  ye  baffled  fiends! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me — but  not  yours! 

[The  Demons  disappear. 

Abbot.  Alas!  how  pale  thou  art — thy  lips  are  white; 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle— Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven-r- 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought — but  die  not  thus. 

Man.  'Tis  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.    Fare  thee  well — 
Give  me  thy  hand 

Abbot.  Cold — cold — even  to  the  heart — 

But  yet  one  prayer — Alas!  how  fares  it  with  thee? 

Man.  Old  man!  'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Manfred  expires. 

Abbot.  He  'b  gone — ^his  soul  hath  ta'en  his  earthless  flight — 
Whither?    I  dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone. 


■** 


^J if. 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH: 

A  MYSTERY, 

FOUNDED  ON  THE  FOLLOWING  PASSAGE  IN  GENESIS,  CHAP.  VI. 

'And  it  came  to  pass  .  .  .  that  the  sons  of  God  saw  the  daughters 
of  men  that  they  were  fair;  and  they  took  them  wives  of  all 
which  they  chose . " 


"And  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover."— Colkridok. 


ANGELS. 

Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael,  the  Archangel. 

MEN. 

Noah  and  his  Sons— 

Ikad. 

Japhet. 

WOMEN. 

Anah. 
Aholibamah, 


Chorus  qf'  Spirits  of  the  Harth.—Chonu  <^  MortaU, 


♦« ft* 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH, 


PART  I. 


SCENE  I. 


t 


A  woody  and   mountainous  district  near  Mount  Ararat.— Time, 
Midnight. 

Miter  Anah  and  Aholibamah. 

Anah.  Our  father  sleeps:  it  is  the  hour  when  they 
Who  love  us  are  accustom' d  to  descend 
Through  the  deep  clouds  o'er  rocky  Ararat: 
How  my  heart  beats! 

A?u>.  Let  us  proceed  upon  '' 

Our  invocation. 

Anah.  But  the  stars  are  hidden. 

I  tremble. 

Aho.        So  do  I,  but  not  with  fear 
Of  aught  save  their  delay. 

Anah.  My  sisl^er,  though 

I  love  Azaziel  more  than oh,  too  much! — 

What  was  I  going  to  say?  my  heart  grows  impious. 

Aha.  And  where  is  the  impiety  of  loving 
Celestial  natures? 

Anah.  But,  Aholibamah, 

I  love  our  God  less  since  His  angel  loved  me: 
This  cannot  be  of  good;  and  though  I  know  not 
That  I  do  wrong,  1  feel  a  thousand  fears 
Which  are  not  ominous  of  right. 

^^.  Then  wed  thee 

Unto  some  son  of  clay,  and  toil  and  spin! 
There  's  Japhet  loves  thee  well,  hath  loved  thee  long. 
Marry,  and  bring  forth  dust! 

Afiah.  I  should  have  loved 

Azaziel  not  less,  were  he  mortal:  yet 
I  am  glad  he  is  not.    I  can  not  outlive  him. 
And  when  I  think  that  his  immortal  wings 
Will  one  day  hover  o'er  the  sepulchre 
Of  the  poor  child  of  clay  which  so  adored  him. 
As  he  adores  the  Highest,  death  becomes 
Less  terrible:  but  yet  I  pity  him; 
His  grief  will  be  of  ages,  or  at  least 
Mine  would  be  such  for  him,  were  I  th§  Seraph, 
And  he  the  perishable. 


^H- 


^l 


216 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[PABT  I. 


Alio.  Rather  say, 

That  he  will  single  forth  some  other  daughter 
Of  Earth,  and  love  her  as  he  once  loved  Anah. 

Anah.  And  if  it  should  be  so,  and  she  loved  him, 
Better  thus  than  that  he  should  weep  for  me. 

Aho.  If  I  thought  thus  of  Samiasa's  love, 
All  Seraph  as  he  is,  I'd  spurn  him  from  me. — 
But  to  our  invocation!    'Tis  the  hour. 
Anah.  Seraph! 

From  thy  sphere! 
Whatever  star  contain  thy  glory; 
In  the  eternal  depths  of  heaven 
Albeit  thou  watchest  with  "the  seven,"* 
Though  through  space  infinite  and  hoary 
Before  thy  bright  wings  worlds  be  driven, 
Yet  hear! 
Oh!  think  of  her  who  holds  thee  dear! 
And  though  she  nothing  is  to  thee, 
Yet  think  that  thou  art  all  to  her. 
Thou  canst  not  tell — and  never  be 
Such  pangs  decreed  to  aught  save  me — 
The  bitterness  of  tears. 
Eternity  is  in  thy  years. 
Unborn,  undying  beauty  in  thine  eyes; 
With  me  thou  canst  not  sympathize. 
Except  in  love,  and  there  thou  must 
Acknowledge  that  more  loving  dust 
Ne'er  wept  beneath  the  skies. 
Thou  walk'st  thy  many  worlds,  thou  seest 

The  face  of  Him  who  made  thee  great, 
As  He  hath  made  me  of  the  least 
Of  those  cast  out  from  Eden's  gate: 
Yet.  Seraph  dear! 
^  Oh,  hear! 
For  thou  hast  loved  me,  and  I  would  not  die 
Until  I  know  what  I  must  die  in  knowing. 
That  thou  forgett'st  in  thine  eternity 

Her  whose  heart  death  could  not  keep  from  o'erflowing 
For  thee,  immortal  essence  as  thou  art! 
Great  is  their  love  who  love  in  sin  and  fear; 
And  such,  I  feel,  are  waging  in  my  heart 

A  war  unworthy;  to  an  Adamite 
Forgive,  my  Seraph!  that  such  thoughts  appear 
For  sorrow  is  our  element; 
Delight 
An  Eden  kept  afar  from  sight. 
Though  sometimes  with  our  visions  blent. 
The  hour  is  near 
Which  tells  me  we  are  not  abandon'd  quite — 
Appear!  appear! 
Seraph! 
My  own  Azaziel!  be  but  here, 
And  leave  the  stars  to  their  own  light. 
Aho.  Samiasa! 


♦  The  archangels,  said  to  be  seven  in  number,  and  to  occupy  the 
eighth  rank  in  the  celestial  liierarchy. 


^h 


it 


SCENE  I.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


217 


Wheresoe'er 
Thou  rulest  in  the  upper  au* — 
Or  warring  with  the  spirits  who  may  dare 
Dispute  with  Him 
Who  made  all  empires,  empire;  or  recalhng 
Some  wandering  star,  which  shoots  through  the  abyss, 
Whose  tenants  dying,  while  their  world  is  falling, 
Share  the  dim  destiny  of  clay  in  this; 

Or  joining  with  the  inferior  cherubim, 
Thou  deignest  to  partake  their  hymn — 

Samiasa! 
I  call  thee,  I  await  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 

Many  may  worship  thee,  that  will  I  not: 
If  that  thy  spirit  down  to  mine  may  move  thee, 
Descend  and  share  my  lot! 
Though  I  be  form'd  of  clay. 

And  thou  of  beams 
More  bright  than  those  of  day 

On  Eden's  streams. 
Thine  immortality  can  not  repay 

With  love  more  warm  than  mine, 
My  love.    There  is  a  ray 
In  me,  which,  though  forbidden  yet  to  shine, 
I  feel  was  lighted  at  thy  God's  and  thine. 
It  may  be  hidden  long:  death  and  decay 
Our  mother  Eve  bequeath'd  us — ^but  my  heart 
.♦  Defies  it;  though  this  life  must  pass  away, 
Is  that  a  cause  for  thee  and  me  to  part? 
Thou  art  immortal — so  am  I:  I  feel — 

I  feel  my  immortality  o'ersweep 
All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peal. 

Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep, 
Into  my  ears  this  truth — "  Thou  liv'st  for  ever  I" 
But  if  it  be  in  joy 
I  know  not,  nor  would  know; 
That  secret  rests  with  the  Almighty  Giver, 
Who  folds  in  clouds  the  fonts  of  bliss  and  woe. 
But  thee  and  me  He  never  can  destroy: 
Change  us  He  may,  but  not  o'erwhelm;  we  are 
Of  as  eternal  essence,  and  must  war 
With  Him  if  He  will  war  with  us:  with  thee 
I  can  share  all  things,  even  immortal  sorrow; 
For  thou  hast  ventured  to  share  life  with  me. 
And  shall  /shrink  from  thine  eternity! 
No!  though  the  serpent's  sting  should  pierce  me  through, 
And  thou  thyself  wert  like  the  serpent,  coil 
Around  me  still!  and  I  will  smile. 
And  curse  thee  not;  but  hold 
Thee  in  as  warm  a  fold 

As But  descend,  and  prove 

A  mortal's  love 
For  an  immortal.    If  the  skies  contain 
More  joy  than  thou  canst  give  and  take,  remain! 

Anah.  Sister!  sister!  I  view  them  winging 
Their  bright  way  through  the  parted  night, 

Ahx>.  The  clouds  from  off  their  pinions  flinging. 
As  though  they  bore  to-moiTow's  light. 
J 


** 


218  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [pabt  i. 

Anah.  But  if  our  father  see  the  sightl 

Afio.  He  would  but  deem  it  was  the  moon 
Rising  unto  some  sorcerer's  tune 
An  hour  too  soon. 

Anah.  They  come!  he  comes  1 — Azaziell 

Aho.  Haste 

To  meet  theml    Oh  for  wings  to  bear 
My  spirit,  while  they  hover  there, 
To  Samiasa's  breast! 

Aruih.  Lo!  they  have  kindled  all  the  west. 
Like  a  returning  sunset; — lo! 

On  Ararat's  late  secret  crest 
A  mild  and  many-color'd  bow, 
The  remnant  of  their  flashing  path, 
Now  shines!  and  now,  behold!  it  hath 
Return'd  to  night,  as  rippling  foam, 

Which  the  leviathan  hath  lash'd 
From  his  unfathomable  home, 
When  sporting  on  the  face  of  the  calm  deep, 

Subsides  soon  after  he  again  hath  dash'd 
Down,  down,  to  where  the  ocean's  fountains  sleep. 

A?u).  They  have  touch'd  earth!— Samiasal 

Anah.  My  Azaziell 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  Irad  and  Japhet. 

Irad.  Despond  not:  wherefore  wilt  thou  wander  thus 
To  add  thy  silence  to  the  silent  night. 
And  lift  thy  tearful  eye  unto  the  stars? 
They  cannot  aid  thee. 

Japh.  But  they  soothe  me— now 

Perhaps  she  looks  upon  them  as  I  look. 
Methinks  a  being  that  is  beautiful 
Becometh  more  so  as  it  looks  on  beauty, 
The  eternal  beauty  of  undying  things, 

0  Anah! 

/        Irad.  But  she  loves  thee  not. 

Japh.  Alas! 

Irad.  And  proud  Aholibamah  spurns  me  also. 

Japh.  I  feel  for  thee  too. 

Irad.  Let  her  keep  her  pride. 

Mine  hath  enabled  me  to  bear  her  scorn: 
It  may  be,  time  too  will  avenge  it. 

Japh.  Canst  thou 

Find  joy  in  such  a  thought? 

Irad.  Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow. 

1  loved  her  well;  I  would  have  loved  her  better, 
Had  love  been  met  with  love;  as  'tis,  I  leave  her 
To  brighter  destinies^  if  so  she  deems  them. 

Japh.  What  destinies? 

Irad.  I  have  some  cause  to  think 

She  loves  another. 
Japh.  Anah? 

Irad.  No;  her  sister. 

Japh.  What  other? 


^^♦ 


■ff- 


it 


SCENE  II.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


219 


Irad.  That  I  know  not;  but  her  air, 

If  not  her  words,  tells  me  she  loves  another. 

Japh.  Ay,  but  not  Anah;  she  but  loves  her  God. 

Irad.  Whate'er  she  loveth,  so  she  loves  thee  not, 
What  can  it  profit  thee? 

Japh.  True,  nothing;  but 

I  love. 

Irad.  And  so  did  I. 

Japh.  And  now  thou  lov'st  not. 

Or  think'st  thou  lov'st  not,  art  thou  happier? 

Irad.  Yes. 

Japh.  I  pity  thee. 

Irad.  Mel  why? 

Japh.  For  being  happy, 

Deprived  of  that  which  makes  my  misery. 

Irad.  I  take  thy  taunt  as  part  of  thy  distemper. 
And  would  not  feel  as  thou  dost  for  more  shekels 
Than  all  our  father's  herds  would  bring  if  weigh'd 
Against  the  metal  of  the  sons  of  Cain — 
The  yellow  dust  they  try  to  barter  with  us, 
As  if  such  useless  and  discolor' d  trash, 
The  refuse  of  the  earth,  could  be  received 
For  milk,  and  wool,  and  flesh,  and  fruits,  and  all 
Our  flocks  and  wilderness  aiford. — Go,  Japhet, 
Sigh  to  the  stars,  as  wolves  howl  to  the  moon — 
I  must  back  to  my  rest. 

Japh.  And  so  would  I, 

If  I  could  rest. 

Irad.  Thou  wilt  not  to  our  tents  then? 

Japh.  No,  Irad;  I  will  to  the  cavern,  whose 
Mouth,  they  say,  opens  from  the  internal  world, 
To  let  the  inner  spirits  of  the  earth 
Forth  when  they  walk  its  surface. 

Irad.  Wherefore  so! 

What  wouldst  thou  there? 

Japh.  Soothe  further  my  sad  spirit 

With  gloom  as  sad:  it  is  a  hopeless  spot. 
And  I  am  hopeless. 

Irad.  But  'tis  dangerous; 

Strange  sounds  and  sights  have  peopled  it  with  terrors. 
I  must  go  with  thee. 

Japh.  Irad,  no;  believe  me 

I  feel  no  evil  thought,  and  fear  no  evil. 

Irad.  But  evil  things  will  be  thy  foe  the  more. 
As  not  being  of  them:  turn  thy  steps  aside. 
Or  let  mine  be  with  thine. 

Japh.  No;  neither,  Irad: 

I  must  proceed  alone. 

Irad.  Then  peace  be  with  thee! 

[Exit  Irad. 

Japh.  (solus.)  Peace!  I  have  sought  it  where  it  should  be 
found, 
.  In  love — with  love,  too,  which  perhaps  deserved  it; 
And,  in  its  stead,  a  heaviness  of  heart — 
A  weakness  of  the  spirit; — listless  days. 
And  nights  inexorable  to  sweet  sleep — 
Have  come  upon  me.    Peace!  what  peace?  the  calm 


♦»■ 


320  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [part  r. 

Of  desolation,  and  the  stilliaess  of 

The  untrodden  forest,  only  broken  by 

The  sweeping  tempest  through  its  groaning  boughs; 

Such  is  the  sullen  or  the  fitful  state 

Of  my  mind  overworn.     The  earth  'e  grown  wicked, 

And  many  signs  and  portents  have  proclaim'd 

A  change  at  hand,  and  an  o'erwhelming  doom 

To  perishable  beings.     Oh,  my  Anah! 

When  the  dread  hour  denounced  shall  open  wide 

The  fountains  of  the  deep,  how  mightest  thou 

Have  lain  within  this  bosom,  folded  from 

The  elements — this  bosom,  which  in  vain 

Hath  beat  for  thee,  and  then  will  beat  more  vainly, 

While  thine 0  God!  at  least  remit  to  her 

Thy  wrath!  for  she  is  pure  amidst  the  failing 

As  a  star  in  the  clouds,  which  cannot  quench. 

Although  they  obscure  it  for  an  hour.     My  Anah! 

How  would  I  have  adored  thee,  but  thou  wouldst  not; 

And  still  would  I  redeem  thee — see  thee  live 

When  Ocean  is  Earth's  grave,  and,  unopposed 

By  rock  or  shallow,  the  leviathan. 

Lord  of  the  shoreless  sea  and  watery  world, 

Shall  wonder  at  his  boundlessness  of  realm. 

[JExit  Japhet. 

Unter  Noah  and  Shem. 

Noah.  Where  is  thy  brother  Japhet? 

S?iem.  He  went  forth, 

According  to  his  wont,  to  meet  with  Irad, 
He  said;  but,  as  I  fear,  to  bend  his  steps 
Towards  Anah's  tents,  round  which  he  hovers  nightly. 
Like  a  dove  round  and  round  its  pillaged  nest; 
Or  else  he  walks  the  wild  up  to  the  cavern 
Which  opens  to  the  heart  or  Ararat. 

J^oah.  What  doth  he  there?    It  is  an  evil  spot 
Upon  an  earth  all  evil:  for  things  worse 
Than  even  wicked  men  resort  there:  he 
Still  loves  this  daughter  of  a  fated  race, 
Although  he  could  not  wed  her  if  she  loved  him, 
And  that  she  doth  not.     Oh,  the  unhappy  hearts 
Of  men!  that  one  of  my  blood,  knowing  well 
The  destiny  and  evil  of  these  days, 
And  that  tiie  hour  api)roiu'heth,  should  indulge 
In  such  forbidden  ytvaruiugs!    Lead  the  way; 
He  must  be  sought  for! 

iShem.  Go  not  forward,  father; 

I  will  seek  Japhet.  • 

Mah.  Do  not  fear  for  me: 

All  evil  things  are  powerless  on  the  man 
Selected  by  Jehovah. — Let  us  on. 

Shem,  To  the  tents  of  the  father  of  the  sisters? 

Noah,  No*  to  the  cavern  of  the  Caucasus. 

lExeunt  Noah  and  Shem. 


« 


^i- 


ih 


SCENE  III,] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


221 


SCENE  III. 


!Die  mountains. — A  cavern,  and  the  rocTcs  of  Caxtcasus. 


Japh.  (sohis.)  Ye  wilds,  that  look  eternal!  and  thou  cave, 
Which  seem'st  unfathomable  1  and  ye  mountains, 
So  varied  and  so  terrible  in  beauty! 
Here,  in  your  rugged  majesty  of  rocks, 
And  toppling  trees  that  twine  their  roots  with  stone 
In  perpendicular  places,  where  the  foot 
Of  man  would  tremble,  could  he  reach  them — yes, 
Ye  look  eternal!    Yet,  in  a  few  days. 
Perhaps  even  hours,  ye  will  be  changed,  rent,  hurl'd 
Before  the  mass  of  waters;  and  yon  cave. 
Which  seems  to  lead  into  a  lower  world. 
Shall  have  its  depth  search'd  by  the  sweeping  wave, 
And  dolphins  gambol  in  the  lion's  den: 

And  man Oh,  men!  my  fellow-beings!  who 

Shall  weep  above  your  universal  grave, 

Save  I?    Who  shall  be  left  to  weep? — My  kinsmen, 

Alas!  What  am  I  better  than  ye  are. 

That  I  must  live  beyond  ye?    Where  shall  be 

The  pleasant  places  where  I  thought  of  Anah 

While  I  had  hope;  or  the  more  savage  haunts. 

Scarce  less  beloved,  where  I  despair'd  for  herl 

And  can  it  be! — shall  yon  exulting  peak. 

Whose  glittering  top  is  like  a  distant  star. 

Lie  low  beneath  the  boiling  of  the  deep? 

No  more  to  have  the  morning  sun  break  forth, 

And  scatter  back  the  mists  ip  floating  folds 

From  its  tremendous  brow?  no  more  to  have 

Day's  broad  orb  drop  behind  its  head  at  even, 

Leaving  it  with  a  crown  of  many  hues? 

No  more  to  be  the  beacon  of  the  world, 

For  angelS  to  alight  on,  as  the  spot 

Nearest  the  stars?    And  can  those  words  "  no  more  " 

Be  meant  for  thee,  for  all  things,  save  for  us. 

And  the  predestined  creeping  things  reserved 

By  my  sire  to  Jehovah's  bidding?    May 

lie  preserve  them,  and  /  not  have  the  poAver 

To  snatch  the  loveliest  of  eaith's  daughters  from 

A  doom  which  even  some  serpent,  with  his  mate. 

Shall  'scape,  to  save  his  kind  to  be  prolong'd. 

To  hiss  and  sting  through  some  emerging  world. 

Reeking  and  dank  from  out  the  slime,  whose  ooze 

Shall  slumber  o'er  the  wreck  of  this,  until 

The  salt  morass  subside  into  a  sphere 

Beneath  the  sun,  and  be  the  monument, 

The  sole  and  undistinguish'd  sepulchre. 

Of  yet  quick  myriads  of  all  life?    How  much 

Breath  will  be  still' d  at  once!    All-beauteous  world! 

So  young,  so  mark'd  out  for  destruction,  I 

With  a  cleft  heart  look  on  thee  day  by  day, 

And  night  by  night,  thy  number' d  days  and  nights: 

I  cannot  save  thee,  cannot  save  even  her 


♦* 


4 


223  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [part  l 

Whose  love  had  made  me  love  thee  more;  but,  as 
A  portion  of  thy  dust,  I  caunot  thiuk 
Upon  thy  coming  doom  without  a  feeling 

Such  as — O  God!  and  canst  Thou [Hej>atis€S. 

[A  rushing  souiid  from  the  cavern  is  heard,  and 
shouts  of  laughter — afterwards  a  Spirit  passes. 

Japh.  In  the  name 

Of  the  Most  High,  what  art  thou? 

/!^irU  Uauglis).  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Japh.  By  all  that  earth  holds  holiest,  speak! 

i^irit  (latufM).  Ha!  ha! 

Japh.  By  the  approaching  deluge!  by  the  earth 
Which  will  be  strangled  by  the  ocean!  by 
The  deep  which  will  lay  open  all  her  fountains! 
The  heaven  which  will  convert  her  clouds  t6  seas, 
And  the  Omnipotent  who  makes  and  crushes! 
Thou  unknown,  terrible,  and  indistinct. 
Yet  awful  Thin^  of  Shadows,  speak  to  me! 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  that  horrid  laugh? 

Spirit.  Why  weep'st  thou? 

Japh.  For  earth  and  all  her  children. 

Spirit.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

/Spirit  vanisJies. 
^  a  world, 

The  coming  desolation  of  an  orb. 
On  which  the  sun  shall  rise  and  warm  no  life! 
How  the  earth  sleeps!  and  all  that  in  it  is 
Sleep  too  upon  the  very  eve  of  death! 
Why  should  they  wake  to  meet  it? — What  is  here. 
Which  look  like  death  in  life,  and  speak  like  things 
Born  ere  this  djing  world?    They  come  like  clouds! 

[  Various  Spirits  pass  from  the  cavern. 
Spirit.  Rejoice! 

The  abhorred  race 
Which  could  not  keep  in  Eden  their  high  place, 
But  listen' d  to  the  voice 
Of  knowledge  without  power, 
Are  nigh  the  hour 
Of  death! 
Not  slow,  not  single,  not  by  sword,  nor  sorrow, 

Nor  years,  nor  heart-break,  nor  time's  sapping  motion, 
Shall  they  drop  off.     Behold  their  last  to-morrow! 
Earth  shall  be  ocean! 
And  no  breath, 
Save  of  the  winds,  be  on  the  unbounded  wave! 
Angels  shall  tire  their  wings,  but  find  no  spot: 
Not  even  a  rock  from  out  the  liquid  grave 

Shall  lift  its  point  to  save. 
Or  show  the  place  where  strong  Despair  hath  died, 
After  long  looking  o'er  the  ocean  wide 
For  the  expected  ebb  which  cometh  not: 
All  shall  be  void, 
Destroy 'd! 
Another  element  shall  be  the  lord 
Of  life,  and  the  abhorr'd 
Children  of  dust  be  quench'd;  and  of  each  hue 
Of  earth  naught  left  out  the  unbroken  blue; 

♦A -^ ** 


HI- 


■it- 


SCENE  III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


233 


And  of  the  variegated  mountain 
Shall  nought  remain 
Unchanged,  or  of  the  level  plain; 
Cedar  and  pine  shall  lift  their  tops  in  vain: 
All  merged  within  the  universal  fountain, 
Man,  earth,  and  fire,  shall  die, 
And  sea  and  sky 
Look  vast  and  lifeless  in  the  eternal  eye. 
Upon  the  foam 
Who  shall  erect  a  home? 
Japh.  (coming forward.)  My  sire! 

Earth's  seed  shall  not  expire; 
Only  the  evil  shall  be  put  away 
From  day. 
Avaunt!  ye  exulting  demons  of  the  waste! 
Who  howl  your  hideous  joy 
When  God  destroys  whom  you  dare  not  destroy; 
Hence  I  haste  J 
Back  to  your  inner  cavesl 
Until  the  waves 
Shall  search  you  in  your  secret  place,  s 

And  drive  your  sullen  race 
Forth,  to  be  roll'd  upon  the  tossing  winds 
In  restless  wretchedness  along  all  spacel 
Spirit.  Son  of  the  saved] 

When  thou  and  thine  have  braved 
The  wide  and  wairing  element; 
When  the  great  barrier  ox  the  deep  is  rent, 
Shall  thou  and  thine  be  good  or  happy? — ^No; 
Thy  new  world  and  new  race  shall  be  of  woe — 
Less  goodly  in  their  aspect,  in  their  years 
Less  than  the  glorious  giants,  who 
Yet  walk  the  world  in  pride, 
The  Sons  of  Heaven  by  many  a  mortal  bride. 
Thine  shall  be  nothing  of  the  past,  save  tears. 
And  art  thou  not  ashamed 

Thus  to  survive, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  wive? 
With  a  base  heart  so  far  subdued  and  tamed, 
As  even  to  hear  this  wide  destruction  named, 
Without  such  grief  and  courage,  as  should  rather 

Bid  thee  await  the  world-dissolving  wave, 
Than  seek  a  shelter  with  thy  favor'd  father, 
And  build  thy  city  o'er  the  drown'd  earth's  grave? 
Who  would  outlive  their  kind, 
Except  the  base  and  blind? 
Mine 
Hateth  thine, 
As  of  a  different  order  in  the  sphere, 
But  not  our  own. 
There  is  not  one  who  hath  not  left  a  throne 

Vacant  in  heaven,  to  dwell  in  darkness  here. 
Rather  than  see  his  mates  endure  alone. 

Go,  wretch!  and  give 
A  life  like  thine  to  other  wretches — ^live! 
And  when  the  annihilating  waters  roar 
Above  what  they  have  done^ 


^t* 


4 


»■ 

a  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [pabt  i. 

Envy  the  Giant  Patriarchs  then  no  more, 
And  scorn  thy  sire  as  the  surviving  one  I 
Thyself  for  being  his  son  I 

CJwru&of  Spirits  issuing  from  Vie  cavern. 

Rejoice! 
No  more  the  human  voice 
Shall  vex  our  joys  in  middle  air 
With  prayer; 
No  more 
Shall  they  adore: 
And  we,  who  ne'er  for  ages  have  adored 

The  prayer-exacting  Lord, 
To  whom  the  omission  of  a  sacrifice 
Is  vice; — 
We,  we  shall  view  the  deep's  salt  sources  pour'd 
Until  one  element  shall  do  the  work 
Of  all  in  chaos;  until  they. 
The  creatures  proud  of  their  poor  clay, 
^  Shall  perish,  and  their  bleached  bones  shall  lurk 
In  caves,  in  dens,  in  clefts  of  mountains,  where 
The  deep  shall  follow  to  their  latest  lair; 

Where  even  the  brutes,  in  their  despair, 
Shall  cease  to  prey  on  man  and  on  each  other, 

And  the  striped  tiger  shall  lie  down  to  die 
Beside  the  lamb,  as  though  he  were  his  brother; 
Till  all  things  shall  be  as  they  were, 
Silent  and  uncreated,  save  the  sky; 
While  a  brief  truce 
Is  made  with  Death,  who  shall  forbear 
The  little  remnant  of  the  past  creation. 
To  generate  new  nations  for  his  use; 
This  remnant,  floating  o'er  the  undulation 
Of  the  subduing  deluge,  from  its  slime. 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  baked  the  reeking  soil 
Into  a  world,  shall  give  again  to  Time 
New  beings — years— diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With  all  companionship  of  hate  and  toil, 

Unta 

Japh.  (interrupting  tlmn.)  The  Eternal  Will 
Shall  deign  to  expound  this  dream 
Of  good  and  evil;  and  redeem 
Unto  Himself  all  times,  all  things; 
And,  gather'd  under  His  almighty  wings, 
Abolish  hell! 
And  to  the  expiated  Earth 
Restore  the  beauty  of  her  birth. 
Her  Eden,  in  an  endless  paradise, 
Where  man  no  more  can  fall  as  once  he  fell, 
And  even  the  very  demons  shall  do  well  I 
Spirits.  And  when  shall  take  effect  this  wondrous  spell? — 
Japh.  When  the  Redeemer  cometh;  first  in  pain. 

And  then  in  glory. 
Spirit.  Meantime  still  struggle  in  the  mortal  chain — 
Till  earth  wax  hoary; 
War  with  yourselves,  and  hell,  and  heaven;  In  vain — 

** ■ ** 


SCENE  in.]  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  325 

Until  the  clouds  look  gory 
With  the  blood  reeking  from  each  battle-plain; 
New  times,  new  climes,  new  arts,  new  men:  but  still 
The  same  old  tears,  old  crimes,  and  oldest  ill. 
Shall  be  amongst  your  race  in  different  forms; 

But  the  same  moral  storms 
Shall  oversweep  the  future,  as  the  waves 
In  a  few  hours  the  glorious  giants'  graves.* 

CJwrus  of  Spirits. 

Brethren,  rejoice  I 
Mortal,  farewell! 
Hark!  hark!  already  we  can  hear  the  voice 
Of  growing  ocean's  gloomy  swell; 
The  winds,  too,  plume  their  piercing  wings; 
The  clouds  have  nearly  flll'd  their  springs; 
The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  shall  be  broken, 

And  heaven  set  wide  her  windows ;t  while  mankind 
View,  unacknowledged,  each  tremendous  token- 
Still,  as  they  were  from  the  beginning,  blind. 
We  hear  the  sound  they  cannot  hear, 
The  mustering  thunders  of  the  threatening  sphere; 
Yet  a  few  hours  their  coming  is  delay'd; 
Their  flashing  banners,  folded  still  on  high, 

Yet  andisplay'd. 
Save  to  the  Spirit's  all-pervading  eye. 

Howl,  howl,  O  Earth! 
Thy  death  is  nearer  than  thy  recent  birth: 
Tremble,  ye  mountains,  soon  to  shrink  below 

The  ocean's  oveiHow! 
The  wave  shall  break  upon  your  cliffs;  and  shells,  " 

The  little  shells,  of  ocean's  least  things  be 
Deposed  where  now  the  eagle's  offspring  dwells — 

How  shall  he  shriek  o'er  the  remorseless  sea! 
And  call  his  nestlings  up  with  fruitless  yell, 
Unanswer'd,  save  by  'the  encroaching  swell; — 
While  man  shall  long  in  vain  for  his  broad  wings, 

The  wings  which  could  not  save: — 
Where  could  he  rest  them,  while  the  whole  space  brings 
Nought  to  his  eye  beyond  the  deep,  his  graveV 
Brethren,  rejoice! 
And  loudly  lift  each  superhuman  voice — 

All  die. 
Save  the  slight  remnant  of  Seth's  seed — 

The  seed  of  Seth, 
Exempt  for  future  Sorrow's  sake  from  death. 
But  of  the  sons  of  Cain 
None  shall  remain; 
And  all  his  goodly  daughters 
Must  lie  beneath  the  desolating  waters — 
Or,  floating  upward,  with  their  long  hair  laid 
Along  the  wave,  the  cruel  Heaven  upbraid, 

*"And  there  were  g-iants  in  the  earth  in  those  days,  and  after; 
mighty  men,  which  were  of  old,  men  of  renown."— G'enesis. 

t  "The  same  day  were  all  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  broken 
up;  and  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened." — Ibid, 
J* 


^ 


2126 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[PABT  I. 


Which  would  not  spare 
Beings  even  in  death  so  fair. 
It  is  decreed, 
All  die! 
And  to  the  universal  human  cry 
The  universal  silence  shall  succeed ! 
Fly,  brethren,  fly  I 
But  still  rejoicel 
We  fell! 
They  falll 
So  perish  all 
These  petty  foes  of  Heaven  who  shrink  from  hell! 

IThe  Spirits  disappear,  soaring  upwards. 

Japh.  (soltis.)  God  hath  proclaim'd  the  destiny  of  earth; 
My  father's  ark  of  safety  hath  announced  it; 
The  very  demons  shriek  it  from  their  caves; 
The  scroll  of  Enoch  prophesied  it  long* 
In  silent  books,  which,  in  their  silence,  say 
More  to  the  mind  than  thunder  to  the  ear: 
And  yet  men  listen 'd  not,  nor  listen;  but 
Walk  darkling  to  their  doom;  which,  though  so  nigh, 
Shakes  them  no  more  in  their  dim  disbelief 
Than  their  last  cries  shall  shake  the  Almighty  purpose, 
Or  deaf  obedient  Ocean,  which  fulfils  it. 
No  sign  yet  hangs  its  banner  in  the  air; 
The  clouds  are  few,  and  of  their  wonted  texture; 
The  sun  will  rise  upon  the  earth's  last  day 
As  on  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when 
God  said  unto  him  "  Shine!"  and  he  broke  forth 
Into  the  dawn,  which  lighted  not  the  yet 
Unform'd  forefather  of  mankind — but  roused 
Before  the  human  orison  the  earlier 
Made  and  far  sweeter  voices  of  the  birds, 
Which  in  the  open  firmament  of  heaven 
Have  wings  like  angels,  and  like  them  salute 
Heaven  first  each  day  before  the  Adamites! 
Their  matins  now  draw  nigh — ^the  east  is  kindling. 
And  they  will  sing!  and  day  will  break!  both  near, 
So  near,  the  awful  close!    For  these  must  drop 
Their  outworn  pinions  on  the  deep;  and  day. 
After  the  bright  course  of  a  few  brief  morrows — 
Ay,  day  will  rise— but  upon  what?  a  chaos. 
Which  was  ere  day;  and  which,  renew'd,  makes  time 
Nothing!  for,  without  life,  what  are  the  hours? 
No  more  to  dust  than  is  eternity 
Unto  Jehovah,  who  created  both. 
Without  Him,  even  eternity  would  be 
A  void:  without  man,  time,  as  made  for  man, 
Dies  with  man,  and  is  swallow'd  in  that  deep 
Which  has  no  fountain;  as  his  race  will  be 
Devour'd  by  that  which  drowns  his  infant  world. — 
What  have  we  here?    Shapes  of  both  earth  and  air? 
No — all  of  heaven,  they  arc  so  beautiful! 


*ih 


♦  The  book  of  Enoch,  preserved  by  the  Ethiopians,  is  said  by  them 
to  bo  anterior  to  the  Hood. 


a- 


SCENE  III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


I  cannot  trace  their  features;  but  their  forms. 
How  lovelily  they  move  along  the  side 
Of  the  gray  mountain,  scattering  its  mist! 
And  aftei  the  swart  savage  spirits,  whose 
Infernal  immortality  pour'd  forth 
Their  impious  hymn  of  triumph,  they  shall  be 
Welcome  as  Eden.     It  may  be,  they  come 
To  tell  me  the  reprieve  of  our  young  world, 
For  which  I  have  so  often  pray'd — Ihey  cornel 
Anah!  O  God  I  and  with  her 


+ 


22? 


^nter  Sajviia.sa,  Azaziel,  Anah,  and  Aholibamah. 

Anah.  Japhetl 

Sam.  Lo! 

A  son  of  Adaml 

Aza.  What  doth  the  earth-bom  here, 

While  all  his  race  are  slumbering? 

Japh.  Angel!  what 

Dost  thou  on  earth  when  thou  shouldst  be  on  high? 

Aza.  Know'st  thou  not,  or  forgett'st  thou,  that  a  part 
Of  our  great  function  is  to  guard  thine  earth? 

Japh,  But  all  good  angels  have  forsaken  earth, 
Which  is  condemn'd;  nay,  even  the  evil  fly 
The  approaching  chaos.     Anah!  Anah!  my 
In  vain,  and  long,  and  still  to  be  beloved! 
Why  walk'st  thou  with  this  spirit,  in  those  hours 
When  no  good  spirit  longer  lights  below? 

Anah.  tJaphet,  I  cannot  answer  thee;  yet,  yet 
Forgive  me 

Japh.  May  the  Heaven,  which  soon  no  more 

Will  pardon,  do  so!  for  thou  art  greatly  tempted. 

Aho.  Back  to  thy  tents,  insulting  son  of  Noah! 
We  know  thee  not. 

Japh.  The  hour  may  come  when  thou 

May'st  know  me  better;  and  thy  sister  know 
Me  still  the  same  which  I  have  ever  been. 

Sam.  Son  of  the  Patriarch,  who  hath  ever  been 
Upright  before  his  God,  whato'er  thy  griefs, 
And  thy  words  seem  of  sorrow,  mix'd  with  wrath, 
How  have  Azaziel,  or  myself,  brought  on  thee 
Wrong? 

Japh.  Wrong!  the  greatest  of  all  wrongs;  but  thou 
Say'st  well,  though  she  be  dust,  I  did  not,  could  not. 
Deserve  her.     Farewell,  Anah!  I  have  said 
That  word  so  often!  but  now  say  it,  ne'er 
To  be  repeated.     Angel!  or  whate'cr 
Thou  art,  or  must  be  soon,  hast  thou  the  power 
To  save  this  beautiful — these  beautiful 
Children  of  Cain? 

Aza.  From  what? 

Japh.  And  is  it  so, 

That  ye  too  know  not?    Angels!  angels!  ye 
Have  shared  man's  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  now  must 
Partake  his  punishment;  or,  at  the  least, 
My  sorrow. 


** 


** 


^i- 


^K 


228 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[PABT  I. 


♦* 


i^m.  Sorrow!  I  ne'er  thought  till  now 

To  hear  an  Adamite  speak  riddles  to  me. 

Japh.  And  hath  not  the  Most  High  expounded  them? 
Then  ye  are  lost,  as  they  are  lost. 

Aho.  So  be  it! 

It  they  love  as  they  are  loved,  they  will  not  shrink 
More  to  be  mortal,  than  I  would  to  dare 
An  immortality  of  agonies 
With  Samiasal 

Anah.  Sister!  sister!  speak  pot 

Thus. 

Aza.  Fearest  thou,  my  Anah? 

Anah.  Yes,  for  thee: 

I  would  resign  the  greater  remnant  of 
This  little  liife  of  mine,  before  one  hour 
Of  thy  eternity  should  know  a  pang. 

Japh.  It  is  for  him,  then!  for  the  Seraph  thou 
Hast  left  me!     That  is  nothing,  if  thou  hast  not 
Left  thy  God  too!  for  unions  like  to  these, 
Between  a  mortal  and  an  immortal,  cannot 
Be  happy  or  be  hallow' d.     We  are  sent 
Upon  the  earth  to  toil  and  die;  and  they 
Are  made  to  minister  on  high  unto 
The  Highest;  but  if  he  can  save  thee,  soon 
The  hour  will  come  in  which  celestial  aid 
Alone  can  do  so. 

Anah.  Ah!  he  speaks  of  death. 

Sam.  Of  death  to  us/  and  those  who  are  with  us  I 
But  that  the  man  seems  full  of  sorrow,  I 
Could  smile. 

Japh.  I  grieve  not  for  myself,  nor  fear; 

I  am  safe,  not  for  my  own  deserts,  but  those 
Of  a  well-doing  sire,  who  hath  been  found 
Righteous  enough  to  save  his  children.    Would 
His  power  was  greater  of  redemption !  or 
That  by  exchanging  my  own  life  for  hers. 
Who  could  alone  have  made  mine  happy,  she. 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  Cain's  race,  could  share 
The  ark  which  shall  receive  a  remnant  of 
Theseedof  Seth! 

Aho.  And  dost  thou  think  that  we, 

With  Cain's,  the  eldest-born  of  Adam's,  blood 
Warm  in  our  veins — strong  Cain!  who  was  begotten 
In  Paradise — would  mingle  with  Seth's  children? 
Seth,  the  last  offspring  of  old  Adam's  dotage? 
No,  not  to  save  all  earth,  were  earth  in  peril! 
Our  race  hath  always  dwelt  apart  from  thine 
From  the  beginning,  and  shall  do  so  ever. 

Japh.  I  did  not  speak  to  thee,  Aholibamah! 
Too  much  of  the  forefather  whom  thou  vauntest 
Has  come  down  in  that  haughty  blood  which  springs 
From  him  who  shed  the  first,  and  that  a  brother's! 
But  thou,  my  Anah! — ^let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Albeit  thou  art  not;  'tis  a  word  I  cannot 
Part  ^vith,  although  I  must  from  thee.     My  Anahl 
Thou  who  dost  rather  make  me  dream  that  Abel 
Had  left  a  daughter,  Avhose  pure  pious  race 


r 


a- 


■ih- 


SCENE  III.j 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


229 


Survive^  in  thee,  so  much  unlike  thou  art 
The  rest  of  the  stern  Cainites,  save  in  beauty, 
For  all  of  them  are  fairest  in  their  favor 

Aho.  {interrupting  him.)  And  wouldst  thou  have  her  like 
our  father's  foe 
In  mind,  in  soul?    If  /partook  thy  thought, 
And  dream'd  that  aught  of  Abel  was  in  her! — 
Get  thee  hence,  son  of  Noah;  thou  makest  strife. 

Japh.  Offspring  of  Cain,  thy  father  did  sol 

Aho.  But 

He  slew  not  Seth:  and  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  other  deeds  between  his  God  and  him? 

Japh.  Thou  speakest  well:  his  God  hath  judged  him,  and 
I  had  not  named  his  deed,  but  that  thyself 
Didst  seem  to  glory  in  him,  nor  to  shrink 
From  what  he  had  done. 

Aho.                                 He  was  our  fathers'  father; 
The  eldest  bom  of  man,  the  strongest,  bravest, 
And  most  enduring:— Shall  I  blush  for  him, 
From  whom  we  had  our  being?    Look  upon 
Our  race;  behold  their  stature  and  their  beauty. 
Their  courage,  strength,  and  length  of  days 

Japh.  They  are  number'd. 

Aho.  Be  it  so!  but  while  yet  their  hours  endure, 
I  glory  in  my  brethren  and  our  fathers! 

Japh.  My  sire  and  race  but  glory  in  their  God, 
Anah!  and  thou? 

Anah.  Whate'er  our  God  decrees, 

The  God  of  Seth  as  Cain,  I  must  obey. 
And  will  endeavor  patiently  to  obey. 
But  could  I  dare  to  pray  in  this  dread  hour 
Of  universal  vengeance  (if  such  should  be),  • 

It  would  not  be  to  live,  alone  exempt 
Of  all  my  house.    My  sister!  oh,  my  sister! 
What  were  the  world,  or  other  worlds,  or  all 
The  brightest  future,  without  the  sweet  past — 
Thy  love— my  father's— all  the  life,  and  all 
The  things  which  sprang  up  with  me,  like  the  stars. 
Making  my  dim  existence  radiant  with 
Soft  lights  which  were  nof  mine?    Aholibamah! 
Oh!  if  there  should  be  mercy— seek  it,  find  it: 
I  abhor  death,  because  that  thou  must  die. 

Aho.  What!  hath  this  dreamer,  with  his  father's  ark. 
The  bugbear  he  hath  built  to  scare  the  world. 
Shaken  my  sister?    Are  we  not  the  loved 
Of  seraphs?  and  if  we  were  not,  must  we 
Cling  to  a  son  of  Noah  for  our  lives? 

Rather  than  thus But  the  enthusiast  dreams 

The  worst  of  dreams,  the  fantasies  engender'd 
By  hopeless  love  and  heated  vigils.    Who 
Shall  shake  these  solid  mountains,  this  firm  earth, 
And  bid  those  clouds  and  waters  take  a  shape 
Distinct  from  that  which  we  and  all  our  sires 
Have  seen  them  wear  on  their  eternal  way? 
Who  shall  do  this? 

Japh.  He  whose  one  word  produced  them. 

AJio.  Who  Acard  that  word? 


* 


** 


-A 


■JK 


230  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [part  i. 

Japh.  The  universe,  wWch  leap'd 

To  life  before  it.    Ah!  smil'st  thou  still  in  scom? 
Turn  to  thy  seraphs:  if  they  attest  it  not, 
They  are  none. 

Sam.  Aholibamah,  own  thy  God! 

Aho,  I  have  ever  hail'd  our  Maker,  Samiasa, 
As  thine,  and  mine;  a  God  of  love,  not  sorrow. 

Japh.  Alas!  what  else  is  love  but  sorrow?    Even 
He  who  made  earth  in  love,  had  soon  to  ^eve 
Above  its  first  and  best  inhabitants. 

Aho.  'Tissaidso. 

Japh.  It  is  even  so. 

Enter  NoAH  and  Shem. 

Noah.  Japhet!  what 

Dost  thou  here  with  these  children  of  the  wicked? 
Dread'st  thou  not  to  partake  their  coming  doom? 

Japh.  Father,  it  cannot  be  a  sin  to  seek 
To  save  an  earth-born  being;  and  behold, 
These  are  not  of  the  sinful,  since  they  have 
The  fellowship  of  angels. 

Noah.  These  are  they,  then, 

Who  leave  the  throne  of  God,  to  take  them  wives 
From  out  the  race  of  Cain;  the  sons  of  heaven, 
Who  seek  earth's  daughters  for  their  beauty? 

Aza.  Patriarch  I 

Thou  hast  said  it. 

Noah.  Woe,  woe,  woe  to  such  communioni 

Has  not  God  made  a  barrier  between  earth 
And  heaven,  and  limited  each,  kind  to  kind? 
*         Sam.  Was  not  man  made  in  high  Jehovah's  image? 
Did  God  not  love  what  He  had  made?    And  what 
Do  we  but  imitate  and  emulate 
His  love  unto  created  love? 

Noah.  I  am 

But  man,  and  was  not  made  to  judge  mankind. 
Far  less  the  sons  of  God;  but  as  our  God 
Has  deign'd  to  commune  with  me,'  and  reveal 
His  judgments,  I  reply,  that  the  descent 
Of  seraphs  from  their  everlasting  seat 
Unto  a  perishable  and  perishing, 
Even  on  the  very  eve  of  perishing,  world, 
Cannot  be  good. 

Aza.  What!  though  it  were  to  savef 

Noah.  Not  ye  in  all  your  glory  can  redeem 
What  He  who  made  you  glorious  hatli  condemned. 
Were  your  immortal  mission  safety,  'twould 
Be  general,  not  for  two,  though  beautiful; 
And  beautiful  they  are,  but  not  the  less 
Condemn'd. 

Z'    h.  Oh,  father!  say  it  not. 

\h.  Son!  son! 

If  that  thou  woukl'st  avoid  their  doom,  forget 
That  tliey  exist:  they  soon  sliall  cease  t«  be; 
While  thou  Shalt  bo  the  sire  of  a  new  world, 
And  better. 


-Ht 


r 


SCENE  III.] 


JIEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


231 


Japh.  Let  me  die  with  this,  and  them  ! 

Koah.  Thou  shouldst  for  such  a  thought,  hut  shalt  not;  He 
"Who  can,  redeems  thee. 

Sam,  And  why  him  and  thee, 

More  than  what  he,  thy  son,  prefers  to  both? 

JS'oah.  Ask  Him  who  made  thee  greater  than  myself 
And  mine,  but  not  less  subject  to  His  own 
Almightiness.    And  lo!  His  mildest  and 
Least  to  be  tempted  messenger  appears! 


Enter  Raphael  the  Archangel. 

Baph.  Spirits! 

Whose  seat  is  near  the  throne, 

What  do  ye  here? 
Is  thus  a  seraph's  duty  to  be  shown, 

Now  that  the  hour  is  near 
When  earth  must  be  alone? 
Return! 
Adore  and  bum 
In  glorious  homage  with  the  elected  "  seven," 

Your  place  is  heaven. 
Sam.  Raphael! 

The  first  and  fairest  of  the  sons  of  God, 

How  long  hath  this  been  law, 
That  earth  by  angels  must  be  left  untrod? 

Earth!  which  oft  saw 
Jehovah's  footsteps  not  disdain  her  sodi 
The  world  he  loved,  and  made 
For  love;  and  oft  have  we  obey'd 
His  frequent  mission  with  delighted  pinions: 

Adoring  Him  in  His  least  works  display'd; 
Watching  this  youngest  star  of  His  dominions; 
And  as  the  latest  birth  of  His  great  word, 
Eager  to  keep  it  worthy  of  our  Lord. 
Why  is  thy  brow  severe? 
And  wherefore  speak'st  thou  of  destruction  near? 

liaph.  Had  Samiasa  and  Azaziel  been 
In  their  true  place,  with  the  angelic  choir, 
Written  in  fire 
They  would  have  seen 
Jehovah's  late  decree. 
And  not  inquired  their  Maker's  breath  of  me; 
But  ignorance  must  ever  be 
A  part  of  sin; 
And  even  the  spirits'  knowledge  shall  grow  less 

As  they  wax  proud  within: 
For  Blindness  is  the  first-born  of  Excess. 

W^hen  all  good  angels  left  the  world,  ye  stay'd, 
Stung  with  strange  passions,  and  debased 

By  mortal  feelings  for  a  mortal  maid: 
But  ye  arc  pardon' d  thus  far,  and  replaced 
With  your  pure  equals.     Hence!  away!  awayl 
Or  stay. 
And  lose  eternity  by  that  delay! 
Aza.  And  thou!  if  earth  be  thus  forbidden 
In  the  decree 


^H- 


■» * 

232  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [part  i. 

To  us  until  this  moment  hidden, 
Dost  thou  not  err,  as  we, 
In  being  here? 
Raph.  I  came  to  call  ye  back  to  your  fit  sphere, 
In  the  great  name  and  at  the  word  of  God. 
Dear,  dearest  in  themselves,  and  scarce  less  dear 

That  which  I  came  to  do;  till  now  we  trod 
Together  the  eternal  space,  together 

Let  us  still  walk  the  stars.     True,  Earth  must  die! 
Her  race,  return'd  into  her  womb,  must  wither, 

And  much  which  she  inherits:  but  oh!  why 
Cannot  this  earth  be  made,  or  be  destroy'd, 
Without  involving  ever  some  vast  void 
In  the  immortal  ranks?  immortal  still 

In  their  immeasurable  forfeiture. 
Our  brother  Satan  fell;  his  burning  will 
Rather  than  longer  worship  dared  endure  1 
But  ye  who  still  are  pure! 
Seraphs!  less  mighty  than  that  mightiest  one, 

Think  how  he  was  undone! 
And  think  if  tempting  man  can  compensate 
For  heaven  desired  too  late? 
Long  have  I  warr'd. 
Long  must  I  war. 
With  him  who  deem'd  it  hard 
To  be  created,  and  to  acknowledge  Him 
Who  'midst  the  cherubim 
Made  him  as  suns  to  a  dependent  star, 
Leaving  the  archangels  at  His  right  hand  dim. 

I  loved  him — beautiful  he  was;  O  heaven! 
Save  His  who  made,  what  beauty  and  what  power 
Was  ever  like  to  Satan's!    Would  the  hour 
In  which  he  fell  could  ever  be  forgivenl 
The  wish  is  impious:  but,  oh  ye! 
Yet  undestroy'd,  be  wam'd!    Eternity 

With  him,  or  with  his  God,  is  in  your  choice! 
He  hath  not  tempted  vou,  he  cannot  tempt 
The  angels,  from  his  further  snares  exempt: 

But  man  hath  listen'd  to  his  voice. 
And  ye  to  woman's — beautiful  she  is. 
The  serpent's  voice  less  subtle  than  her  kiss. 
The  snake  but  vauquish'd  dust:  but  she  will  draw 
^.     A  second  host  from  heaven,  to  break  heaven's  law. 
Yet,  yet,  oh  fly: 
Ye  cannot  die; 
But  they 
Shall  pass  away. 
While  ye  shall  All  with  slirieks  the  upper  sky 

For  perishable  clay, 
Whoso  memory  in  your  immortality 

Shall  long  outlast  the  sun  which  gave  them  day. 
Think  how  your  essence  differeth  from  theirs 
In  all  but  suffering!    Why  partake 
The  agony  to  which  they  must  be  heirs — 
Born  to  be  plough'd  witli  years,  and  sown  with  cares, 
And  reap'd  by  Death,  lord  of  the  human  t^oil? 
Even  had  their  days  oeen  left  to  toil  their  path 

♦* __ ** 


*it- 


gCBNE  III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


S33 


Through  time  to  dust,  unshorten'd  by  God's  wrath, 
Still  they  are  Evil's  prey  and  Sorrow's  spoil. 

Aho.  Let  them  fly! 

I  hear  the  voice  which  says  that  all  must  die, 
Sooner  than  our  white-bearded  patriarchs  died; 
And  that  on  high 
An  ocean  is  prepared, 
While  from  below 
The  deep  shall  rise  to  meet  heaven's  overflow. 

Few  shall  be  spared, 
It  seems;  and,  of  that  few,  the  race  of  Cain 
Must  lift  their  eyes  to  Adam's  God  in  vain. 
Sister!  since  it  is  so. 
And  the  eternal  Lord 
In  vain  would  be  implored 
For  the  remission  of  one  hour  of  woe, 
Let  us  resign  even  what  we  have  adored, 
And  meet  the  wave,  as  we  would  meet  the  sword. 

If  not  unmoved,  yet  undismay'd. 
And  wailing  less  for  us  than  those  who  shall 
Survive  in  mortal  or  immortal  thrall f^ 

And,  when  the  fatal  waters  are  allay'd, 
Weep  for  the  myriads  who  can  weep  no  more. 
Fly,  Seraphs!  to  your  own  eternal  shore, 
Where  winds  nor  howl  nor  waters  roar. 
Our  portion  is  to  die. 
And  yours  to  live  for  ever: 
But  which  is  best,  a  dead  eternity, 
Or  living,  is  but  known  to  the  great  Giver. 
Obey  Him,  as  we  shall  obey; 
I  would  not  keep  this  life  of  mine  of  clay 
An  hour  beyond  His  will; 
Nor  see  ye  lose  a  portion  of  His  grace, 
For  all  the  mercy  which  Seth's  race 
Find  still. 
Fly! 
And  as  your  pinions  bear  ye  back  to  heaven. 
Think  that  my  love  still  mounts  with  thee  on  high, 

Samiasa! 
And  if  I  look  up  with  a  tearless  eye, 
'Tis  that  an  angel's  bride  disdains  to  weep — 
Farewell!    Now  rise,  inexorable  Deepl 
Anah.  And  must  we  die? 

And  must  I  lose  thee  too, 

Azaziel? 
Oh,  my  heart!  my  heart  I 

Thy  prophecies  were  true. 
And  yet  thou  wert  so  happy  too! 
The  blow,  though  not  unlook'd  for,  falls  as  new: 
But  yet  depart! 
Ah!  why? 
Yet  let  me  not  retain  thee — fly! 
My  pangs  can  be  but  brief;  but  thine  would  be 
Eternal,  if  repulsed  from  heaven  for  me. 
Too  much  already  hast  thou  deign'd 
To  one  of  Adam's  race! 
Our  doom  is  sorrow;  not  to  us  alone, 


m^ 

234  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [pakt  i. 

But  to  the  spirits  who  have  not  disdain'd 
To  love  us,  Cometh  anguish  with  disgrace. 
The  first  who  taught  us  knowledge  hath  been  hurl'd 
From  his  once  archangelic  throne 
Into  some  unknown  world: 

And  thou,  Azaziel!    No— 
Thou  shalt  not  suffer  woe 
For  me.    Away!  nor  weep! 
Thou  canst  not  weep;  but  yet 
May'st  suffer  more,  not  weeping:  then  forget 
Her,  whom  the  surges  of  the  all-strangling  Deep 

Can  bring  no  pang  like  this.    Fly!  fly! 
Being  gone,  'twill  be  less  difficult  to  die. 

Japh.  Oh,  say  not  so! 
Father!  and  thou,  archangel,  thoul 
Surely  celestial  Mercy  lurks  below 
That  pure  severe  serenity  of  brow; 
Let  them  not  meet  this  sea  without  a  shore. 
Save  in  our  ark,  or  let  me  be  no  more! 
Noah.  Peace,  child  of  passion,  peace! 
If  not  within  thy  Iffeart,  yet  with  thy  tongue 

Do  God  no  wrong! 
Live  as  He  wills  it — die  when  He  ordains, 
A  righteous  death,  unlike  the  seed  of  Cain's. 

Cease,  or  be  sorrowful  in  silence;  cease 
To  weary  Heaven's  ear  with  thy  selfish  plaint. 
Wouldst  thou  have  God  commit  a  sin  lor  thee? 
Such  would  it  be 
To  alter  His  intent  ' 

For  a  mere  mortal  sorrow.    Be  a  man! 
And  bear  what  Adam's  race  must  bear,  and  can. 
Japh.  Ay,  father!  but  when  they  are  gone, 
And  we  are  all  alone. 
Floating  upon  the  azure  desert,  and 
The  depth  beneath  us  hides  our  own  dear  land, 
And  dearer,  silent  friends  and  brethren,  all 
Buried  in  its  immeasurable  breast. 
Who,  who,  our  tears,  our  shrieks,  shall  then  command? 
Can  we  in  desolation's  peace  have  rest? 
O  God!  be  Thou  a  God,  and  spare 
Yet  while  'tis  time! 
Renew  not  Adam's  fall: 
Mankind  were  then  but  twain, 
But  they  are  numerous  now  as  are  the  waves 

And  the  tremendous  rain. 
Whose  drops  shall  be  less  thick  than  would  their  graves, 
Were  graves  permitted  to  the  seed  of  Cain. 
Noah.  Silence,  vain  boy!  each  word  of  thine  's  a  crime! 
Angel!  forgive  this  stripling's  fond  despair. 

JRaph.  Seraphs!  these  mortals  sj^eak  in  passion:  ye, 
Who  are,  or  should  be,  passionless  and  pure. 
May  now  return  with  me, 

Sam.  It  may  not  be: 

We  have  chosen,  and  will  endure. 
Haph.  Say'st  thou? 

Am.  Ho  hath  said  it,  and  I  say,  Amen  I 
Haph,  Again! 

^ ■ -*■ 


IK 


SCENE  III.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


Then  from  this  hour, 
Shorn  as  ye  are  of  all  celestial  power, 
And  aliens  from  your  God, 
Farewell! 
Japh.  Alas!  where  shall  they  dwell? 

Hark,  hark!    Deep  sounds,  and  deeper  still, 
Are  howling  from  the  mountain's  bosom: 
There  's  not  a  breath  of  wind  upon  the  hill. 

Yet  quivers  every  leaf,  and  drops  each  blossom: 
Earth  groans  as  if  beneath  a  heavy  load. 

Noah.  Hark!  hark!  the  sea-birds  cry! 
In  clouds  they  overspread  the  lurid  sky. 
And  hover  round  the  mountain,  where  before 
Never  a  white  wing,  wetted  by  the  wave, 

Yet  dared  to  soar. 
Even  when  the  waters  wax'd  too  fierce  to  brave. 
Soon  it  shall  be  their  only  shore, 

And  then,  no  more! 

Japh.  The  sun!  the  sun! 

He  riseth,  but  his  better  light  is  gone, 

And  a  black  circle,  bound 

His  glaring  disk  around, 

Proclaims  Earth's  last  of  summer  days  hath  shone! 

The  clouds  retuni  into  the  hues  of  night. 
Save  where  their  brazen-colored  edges  streak 
The  verge  where  brighter  morns  were  wont  to  break. 

Noah.  And  lo!  yon  flash  of  light. 
The  distant  thunder's  harbinger,  appears! 

It  Cometh!  hence!  away! 
Leave  to  the  elements  their  evil  prey! 
Hence  to  where  our  all-hallowed  ark  uprears 
Its  safe  and  wreckless  sides. 
Japh.  Oh,  father,  stay! 
Leave  not  my  Anah  to  the  swallowing  tides! 
Noah.  Must  we  not  leave  all  life  to  such?    Begone! 
Japh.  Not  I. 

Noah.  Then  die 

With  them! 
How  darest  thou  look  on  that  prophetic  sky, 
And  seek  to  save  what  all  things  now  condemn, 
In  overwhelming  unison 
With  just  Jehovah's  wrath? 
Japh.  Can  rage  and  justice  join  in  the  same  path? 
hoah.  Blasphemer!  darest  thou  murmur  even  now? 
Maph.  Patriarch,  be  still  a  father!  smooth  thy  brow: 
Thy  son,  despite  his  folly,  shall  not  sink: 
He  knows  not  what  he  says,  yet  shall  not  drink 

With  sobs  the  salt  foam  of  the  swelling  waters; 
But  be,  when  Passion  passeth,  good  as  thou. 
Nor  perish  like  Heaven's  children  with  Man's  daughters. 
Aho.  The  tempest  cometh;  Heaven  and  Earth  unite 
For  the  annihilation  of  all  life. 
Unequal  is  the  strife 
Between  our  strength  and  the  Eternal  Might! 
Sam.  But  ours  is  with  thee:  we  will  bear  ye  far 
To  some  untroubled  star. 
Where  thou  and  Anah  shalt  partake  our  lot: 


♦* 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


[part  I. 


And  if  thou  dost  not  weep  for  thy  lost  earth, 
Our  forfeit  heaven  shall  also  be  forgot. 

Anah.  Oh!  my  dear  father's  tents,  my  place  of  birth! 
And  mountains,  land,  and  woods!  when  ye  are  not, 
Who  shall  dry  up  my  tears? 

Aza.  Thy  Sphit-lord. 

Fear  not;  though  we  are  shut  from  heaven, 
Yet  much  is  ours,  whence  we  cannot  be  driven. 

Jiaph.  Rebel!  thy  words  are  wicked  as  thy  deeds 
Shall  henceforth  be  but  weak:  the  flaming  sword 
Which  chased  the  first-bom  out  of  Paradise, 
Still  flashes  in  the  angelic  hands, 

Aza.  It  cannot  slay  us:  threaten  dust  with  death, 
And  talk  of  weapons  unto  that  which  bleeds! 
What  are  thy  swords  in  our  immortal  eyes? 

Jiaph.  The  moment  cometh  to  approve  thy  strength; 
And  learn  at  length 
How  vain  to  war  with  what  thy  God  commands. 
Thy  former  force  was  in  thy  faith. 

^Titer  Mortals,  Jlyingfor  refuge. 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

The  heavens  and  earth  are  mingling — God!  O  God! 
What  have  we  done?    Yet  spare! 
Hark!  even  the  forest  beasts  howl  forth  their  prayer! 
The  dragon  crawls  from  out  his  den, 
To  herd,  in  terror,  innocent  with  men! 
And  the  birds  scream  their  agony  through  air. 
Yet,  yet,  Jehovah!  yet  withdraw  Thy  rod 
Of  wrath,  and  pity  thine  own  world's  despair! 
Hear  not  Man  only,  but  all  Nature  plead! 

Baph.  Farewell,  thou  earth!    Ye  wretched  sons  of  clay, 
I  can  not,  must  not,  aid  you.     'Tis  decreed! 

[Exit  Raphael. 

Japh.  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their  prey. 
While  others,  fix'd  as  rocks,  await  the  word 
At  which  their  wrathful  vials  shall  be  pour'd. 
No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament. 
Nor  spangled  stars  bo  glorious:  Death  hath  risen: 
In  the  Sun's  place,  a  pale  and  ghastly  glare 
Hath  wound  itself  around  the  dying  air. 

Aza.  Come,  Anah  I  quit  this  chaos-founded  prison, 
To  which  the  elements  again  repair. 
To  turn  it  into  what  it  was:  beneath 
The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  safe, 
As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother's.— Let  the  coming  chaos  chafe 
With  all  its  elements!  heed  not  their  din! 
A  brighter  world  than  this,  where  thou  shalt  breathe 
Ethereal  life,  will  we  explore: 
These  darken'd  clouds  are  not  the  only  skies. 

[Azaziel  and  SAMiASA^y  off^  and  disappear  loiih 
Anau  and  Ajiohb.vmau. 

Japh.  They  are  gone!  They  have  disappear'd  amidst  the 
roar 


** 


r 


a 


SCENE  III.J 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


237 


Of  the  forsaken  world;  and  never  more, 
Whether  they  live,  or  die  with  ail  earth's  life, 
Now  near  its  last,  can  aught  restore 
Anah  unto  these  eyes. 


Chorus  of  Mortals. 

Oh,  son  of  Noah!  mercy  on  thy  kind! 
What,  wilt  thou  leave  us  all— all — all  behind? 
While  safe  amidst  the  elemental  strife, 
Thou  sitt'st  within  thy  guarded  ark? 
A  Mother  {offering  her  infant  to  Japhet).  Oh,  let  this  child 
embark! 
I  brought  him  forth  in  woe, 

But  thought  it  joy 
To  see  him  to  my  bosom  clinging  so.  . 
Why  was  he  born? 
What  hath  he  done — 
My  unwean'd  son — 
To  move  Jehovah's  wrath  or  scorn? 
What  is  there  in  this  milk  of  mine,  that  Death 
Should  stir  all  heaven  and  earth  up  to  destroy 

My  boy, 
And  roll  the  waters  o'er  his  placid  breath? 
Save  him,  thou  seed  of  Seth! 
Or  cursed  be— with  Him  who  made 
Thee  and  thy  race,  for  which  we  are  betray'd! 
Japh.  Peace!  'tis  no  hour  for  curses,  but  for  prayer! 

Chorus  of  Mortals. 

For  prayer!  !  ! 
And  where 
Shall  prayer  ascend 
When  the  swoln  clouds  unto  the  mountains  bend 

And  burst. 
And  gushing  oceans  every  barrier  rend. 
Until  the  very  deserts  know  no  thirst! 
Accurst 
Be  He  who  made  thee  and  thy  sire! 
We  deem  our  curses  vain;  we  must  expire; 

But  as  we  know  the  worst. 
Why  should  our  hymn  be  raised,  our  knees  be  bent 
Before  the  implacable  Omnipotent, 
Since  we  must  fall  the  same? 
If  He  hath  made  earth,  let  it  be  His  shame 
To  make  a  world  for  torture.— Lo!  they  come. 

The  loathsome  waters,  in  their  rage! 
And  with  their  roar  make  wholesome  Nature  dumb! 

The  forest's  trees  (coeval  with  the  hour 
When  Paradise  upsprung, 

Ere  Eve  gave  Adam  knowledge  for  her  dower, 
Or  Adam  his  first  hymn  of  slavery  sung), 
So  massy,  vast,  yet  green  in  their  old  age. 
Are  overtopp'd, 
Their  summer  blossoms  by  the  surges  lopp'd 
Which  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise. 


* 


*♦ 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH.  [pabt  i. 

Vainly  we  look  up  to  the  louring  skies — 

They  meet  the  seas, 
And  shut  out  God  from  our  beseeching  eyes. 

Fly,  son  of  Noah,  fly!  and  take  thine  ease 
In  thine  allotted  ocean-tent; 
And  view,  all  floating  o'er  the  element, 
The  corpses  of  tbe  world  of  thy  young  days: 
Then  to  Jehovah  raise 
Thy  song  of  praise! 
A  Mortal.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
Who  die  in  the  Lord  I 
And  though  the  waters  be  o'er  earth  outspread, 
Yet,  as  His  word. 
Be  the  decree  adored  1 
He  gave  me  life — He  taketh  but 
The  breath  which  is  His  own; 
And  though  these  eyes  should  be  forever  shut, 
Nor  longer  this  weak  voice  before  His  throne 
Be  heard  in  supplicating  tone, 
Still  blessed  be  the  Lord, 
For  what  Is  past, 
For  that  which  is: 
For  all  are  His, 
From  first  to  last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
The  vast  known  and  immeasurable  unknown 
He  made  and  can  unmake; 
And  shall  /,  for  a  little  gasp  oi  breath. 

Blaspheme  and  groan? 
No;  let  me  die,  as  I  have  lived,  in  faith. 
Nor  quiver,  though  the  universe  may  quake. 

Chorus  of  M0KTAI.S. 

Where  shall  we  fly? 
Not  to  the  mountains  high: 
For  now  their  torrents  rush,  with  double  roar, 
To  meet  the  ocean,  which,  advancing  still. 
Already  grasps  each  drowning  hill, 
Nor  leaves  an  unsearch'd  cave. 

JEnter  a  Woman. 

Woman.  Oh,  save  me,  save  I 
Our  valley  is  no  more; 

My  father  and  my  father's  tent, 
My  brethren  and  my  brethren's  herds. 

The  pleasant  trees  that  o'er  our  noonday  bent 
And  sent  forth  evening  songs  from  sweetest  birds, 

The  little  rivulet  which  freshen'd  all 
Our  pastures  green. 
No  more  are  to  be  seen. 
When  to  the  mountain  clilT  I  cllmb'd  this  moni| 

I  tum'd  to  bless  the  spot. 
And  not  a  leaf  appear'd  about  to  fall; — 

And  now  they  are  notl 
Why  was  I  bom? 


^K 


^i- 


ih^ 


SCENK  ni.] 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH. 


Japh.  To  die!  in  youth  to  die! 

And  happier  in  that  doom, 
Than  to  behold  the  universal  tomb 

Which  I 
Am  thus  condemn'd  to  weep  above  in  vain. 
Why,  when  all  perish,  why  must  I  remain? 

[The  Waters  rise;  Men  fly  in  every  direction;  many  are  over- 
taken by  tTie  waves.  The  Chorus  of  Mortals  disperses  in 
search  of  safety  up  tJie  ^fountains;  Japhet  remains  upwi 
a  rock,  while  the  Ark  floats  toivards  Mm  in  the  distance. 


--If- 


iK 


CAIN: 


A  MYSTERY. 


'  Now  the  Serpent  was  more  subtile  than  any  beast  of  the  field  which 
the  Lord  God  had  made.  "—Genesis,  iii.  1. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART., 

THIS  MYSTERY  OF  CAIN  IS  INSCKIBKD, 
BY  HIS  OBLIGED  FRIEND,  AND  FAITHFUL  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 

Thk  following  scenes  are  entitled  "A  Mystery,"  in  conformity 
with  the  ancient  title  annexed  to  dramas  upon  similar  subjects, 
which  were  styled  "Mysteries,  or  MoraUties."  The  author  has 
by  no  means  taken  the  same  liberties  with  his  subject  which 
were  common  formerly,  as  may  be  seen  by  any  reader  curious 
enough  to  refer  to  those  very  profane  productions,  whether  in 
English,  French,  Italian,  or  Spanish.  The  author  has  endeav- 
ored to  preserve  the  language  adapted  to  his  characters  ;  and  where 
it  is  (and  this  is  but  rarely)  taken  from  actual  Scripture,  he 
has  made  as  little  alteration,  even  of  words,  as  the  rhythm  would 
Ijermit.  The  reader  will  recollect  that  the  Book  of  Genesis  does 
not  state  that  Eve  was  tempted  by  a  demon,  but  by  "the  ser- 
pent;" and  that  only  because  he  was  "the  most  subtile  of  all 
the  beasts  of  the  field."  Whatever  interpretation  the  Rabbins 
and  the  Fathers  may  have  put  upon  this,  I  take  the  words  as  I 
find  them,  and  reply,  with  Bisliop  Watson  upon  similar  occasions, 
when  the  Fathers  were  quoted  to  him,  as  Moderator  in  the  schools 
of  Cambridge,  "Behold  the  Book.'"— holding  up  the  Scripture.  It 
is  to  be  recollected  that  my  present  subject  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  New  Testament,  to  which  no  reference  can  be  here  made 
without  anachronism.  With  the  poems  upon  similar  topics  1  have  not 


-it 


CAIN. 


341 


been  recently  familiar.  Since  I  was  twenty,  I  have  never  read  Milton ; 
but  I  had  read  him  so  frequently  before,  that  this  may  make  little 
difference.  Gesner's  "  Death  of  Abel "  I  have  never  read  since  I  was 
eight  years  of  age,  at  Aberdeen.  The  general  impression  of  my  recol- 
lection is  delight;  but  of  the  contents  I  remember  only  that  Cain's 
wife  was  called  Mahala,  and  Abel's  Thirza;  in  the  following  pages  I 
have  called  them  "Adah"  and  "Zillah,"  the  earliest  female  names 
which  occur  in  Genesis;  they  were  those  of  Lameirh's  wives;  those 
of  Cain  and  Abel  are  ftot  called  by  their  names.  Whether,  then,  a 
.  coincidence  of  subject  may  have  caused  the  same  in  expression,  I 
know  nothing,  and  care  as  little. 

The  reader  will  please  bear  in  mind  (what  few  choose  to  recollect), 
that  there  is  no  allusion  to  a  future  state  in  any  of  the  Books  of 
Moses,  nor  indeed  in  the  Old  Testament.  For  a  reason  for  this  ex- 
traordinary omission,  he  may  consult  Warburton's  "Divine  Lega- 
tion;" whether  satisfactory  or  not,  no  better  has  yet  been  assigned. 
I  have  therefore  supposed  it  new  to  Cain,  without,  I  hope,  any  per- 
version of  Holy  writ. 

With  regard  to  the  language  of  Lucifer,  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
make  him  talk  Uke  a  clergyman  upon  the  same  subjects;  but  I  have 
done  what  I  could  to  restrain  him  within  the  bounds  of  spiritual 
politeness. 

If  he  disclaims  having  tempted  Eve  in  the  shape  of  the  Serpent, 
it  is  only  because  the  Book  of  Genesis  has  not  the  most  distant  allu- 
sion to  anything  of  the  kind,  but  merely  to  the  Serpent  in  his  ser- 
pentine capacity. 

Note.— The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  author  has  partly  adopted 
in  this  poem  the  notion  of  Cuvier,  that  the  world  had  been  destroyed 
several  times  before  the  creation  of  man.  This  speculation,  derived 
from  the  different  strata  and  the  bones  of  enormous  and  unknown 
animals  found  in  them,  is  not  contrary  to  the  Mosaic  account,  but 
rather  confirms  it;  as  no  human  bones  have  yet  been  discovered  in 
those  strata,  although  those  of  many  known  animals  are  found  near 
the  remains  of  the  unknown.  The  assertion  of  Lucifer,  that  the  pre- 
Adamite  world  was  also  peopled  by  rational  beings  much  more 
intelligent  than  man,  and  proportionably  powerful  to  the  mammoth, 
&c.,  &c.,  is,  of  course,  a  poetical  fiction  to  help  him  to  make  out 
his  case. 

I  ought  to  add,  that  there  is  a  "tramelogedia"  of  Alfieri,  called 
"  Abele."  I  have  never  read  that,  nor  any  other  of  the  posthumous 
works  of  the  writer,  except  his  Life. 


4- 


«* 


^t 


CAIN. 


^rantatis  ^trsona?. 


Men. 

Jfipirits. 

Women. 

Adam. 

Angel  of  the  Lord. 

Eve. 

Cain. 
Abel. 

Lucifer. 

Adah. 

ZiLLAH. 

ACT  L 

scene   I. 

The  Land  without  Paradise. — Time,  Sunrise. 

Adam,  Eve,  Cain,  Abel,  Adah,  Zillah,  offering  a  iiacrijlce, 

Adam.  God,  the  Eternal!  Infinite!  All-wise! — 
Who  out  of  darkness  on  the  deep  didst  make 
Light  on  the  waters  with  a  Avord — all  haill 
Jehovah,  with  returning  light,  all  hail! 

Eve.  God,  who  didst  name  the  day,  and  separate 
Morning  from  night,  till  then  divided  never — 
Who  didst  divide  the  wave  from  wave,  and  call 
Part  of  Thy  work  the  firmament— all  haill 

Abel.  God,  who  didst  call  the  elements  into 
Earth— ocean— air— and  fire,  and  with  the  day 
And  night,  and  worlds,  which  these  illuminate, 
Or  shadow,  madest  beings  to  enjoy  them. 
And  love  both  them  and  Thee— all  hail!  all  haill 

Adah.  God,  the  Eternal!  Parent  of  all  things! 
Who  didst  create  these  best  and  beautet)UB  beings, 
To  be  beloved,  more  than  all,  pave  Thee — 
Let  me  love  Thee  and  them:— all  hail!  all  hail! 

ZiUah.  O  God!  who  loving,  making,  blessing  all, 
Yet  didst  permit  the  Serpent  to  creej)  in, 
And  drive  my  father  forth  from  Paradise, 
Keep  us  from  further  evil:— haill  all  hail! 


4K 


>ff — ^ 

SCENE  I.]  CAIN.  243 

Adam.  Son  Cain,  my  first-born,  wherefore  art  thou  silent? 

Cain.  Why  should  I  speak? 

Adam.  To  pray. 

Cain.  Have  ye  not  pray'd? 

Adam.  Wo  have,  most  fervently. 

Cain.  And  loudly:  I 

Have  heard  you. 

Adam.  So  will  God,  I  trust. 

Abel.  Amen! 

Adam.  But  thou,  my  eldest  born,  art  silent  still. 

Cain.  'Tis  better  I  should  be  so. 

Adam.  Wherefore  so? 

Cain.  I  have  nought  to  ask. 

Adam.  Nor  aught  to  thank  for? 

Cain.  No. 

Adam.  Dost  thou  not  live? 

Cain.  Must  I  not  die? 

Eve.  Alas! 

The  frilit  of  our  forbidden  tree  begins 
To  fall. 

Adam.  And  we  must  gather  it  again. 

0  GodI  why  didst  Thou  plant  the  tree  of  knowledge? 
Cain.  And  wherefore  pluck'd  ye  not  the  tree  of  life? 

Te  might  have  then  defied  Him. 

Adam.  Oh!  my  son, 

Blaspheme  not:  th^se  are  serpents'  words. 

Cai7i.  Why  not? 

The  snake  spoke  truth;  it  was  the  tree  of  knowledge; 
It  loas  the  tree  of  life;  knowledge  is  good, 
And  life  is  good:  and  how  can  both  be  evil? 

Eve.  My  boy!  thou  speakest  as  I  spoke,  in  sin, 
Before  thy  birth:  let  me  not  see  renew'd 
My  misery  in  thine.    I  have  repented. 
Let  me  not  sea  ray  offspring  fall  into 
The  snares  beyond  the  walls  of  Paradise, 
Which  e'en  in  Paradise  destroy'd  his  parents. 
Content  thee  with  what  is.    Had  we  been  so, 
Thou  now  hadst  been  contented. — Oh,  my  son  I 

Adam.  Our  orisons  completed,  let  us  hence, 
Each  to  his  task  of  toil — not  heavy,  though 
Needful:  the  earth  is  young,  and  yields  us  kindly 
Her  fruits  with  little  labor. 

Eve.  Cain,  my  son, 

Behold  thy  father  cheerful  and  resign'd. 
And  do  as  he  doth. 

\Exeunt  Adam  and  Eve. 

Zillah.  Wilt  thou  not,  my  brother? 

Abel.  Why  wilt  thou  wear  this  gloom  upon  thy  brow, 
Which  can  avail  thee  nothing,  save  to  rouse 
The  Eternal  anger? 

Adah.  My  beloved  Cain, 

Wilt  thou  frown  even  on  me? 

Cain.  No,  Adah!  no; 

1  fain  would  be  alone  a  little  while. 
Abel,  I'm  sick  at  heart;  but  it  will  pass. 
Precede  me,  brother — I  will  follow  shortly. 
And  you,  too,  sisters,  tarry  not  behind; 

.♦* — 


^K 


344  CAIN.  [act  i. 

Tour  gentleness  must  not  be  harshly  met: 
I'll  follow  you  anon. 

Adah.  If  not,  I  will 

Return  to  seek  you  here. 

Abel.  The  peace  of  God 

Be  on  your  spirit,  brother! 

[Exeunt  Abel,  Zillah,  and  Adah. 

Cain  (solus).  And  this  is 

Life! — Toil!  and  wherefore  should  I  toil?— because 
My  father  could  not  keep  his  place  in  Eden. 
What  had  /done  in  this?— I  was  unborn: 
I  sought  not  to  be  born;  nor  love  the  state 
To  which  that  birth  has  brought  me.    Why  did  he 
Yield  to  the  serpent  and  the  woman?  or, 
Yielding,  why  suffer?    What  was  there  in  this? 
The  tree  was  planted,  and  why  not  for  him? 
If  not,  why  place  him  near  it,  where  it  grew, 
The  fairest  in  the  centre?    They  have  but 
One  answer  to  all  questions,  "  'Twas  Bis  will, 
And  He  is  good."    How  know  I  that?    Because 
He  is  all-powerful,  must  all-good,  too,  follow? 
I  judge  but  by  the  fruits— and  they  are  bitter — 
Which  I  must  feed  on  for  a  fault  not  mine. 
Whom  have  we  here?— A  shape  like  to  the  angels, 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect. 
Of  spiritual  essence:  why  do  I  quake? 
Why  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spu-its. 
Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  linger  oft. 
In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance. 
Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defended  battlements? 
If  I  shrink  not  from  these,  the  fire-arm'd  angels. 
Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  approaches? 
Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous,  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiful 
As  he  hath  been,  and  might  be:  sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality.    And  is  it 
So?  and  can  aught  grieve  save  humanity? 
He  cometh. 

MUer  Lucifer. 

Litcifer.       Mortal! 

Cain.  Spirit,  who  art  thou? 

Lucijfer.  Master  of  Spirits. 

Cain.  And  being  so,  canst  thou 

Leave  them,  and  walk  with  dust? 

Lucifer.  I  know  the  thoughts 

Of  dust,  and  feel  for  it,  and  with  you. 

Cain.  How! 

You  know  my  thoughts? 

Lnicifer.  They  are  the  thoughts  9f  all 

Worthy  of  thought:— 'tis  your  immortal  part 
Which  speaks  within  you. 

Cain.  What  immortal  part? 


SCENE  I.]  CAIN.  245 

This  has  not  been  revealed:  the  tree  of  life 
Was  withheld  from  us  by  my  father's  folly, 
While  that  of  Imowledge,  by  my  mother's  haste, 
Was  pluck'd  too  soon;  and  all  the  fruit  is  death! 

Lxicifer.  They  have  deceived  thee;  thou  ehalt  live. 

Cain.  I  live, 

But  live  to  die:  and,  living,  see  no  thing- 
To  make  death  hateful,  save  an  innate  clinging, 
A  loathsome,  and  yet  all  invincible 
Instinct  of  life,  which  I  abhor,  as  I 
Despise  myself,  yet  cannot  overcome — 
And  80  I  live.    Would  I  had  never  lived! 

Lucifer.  Thou  livest,  and  must  live  for  ever:  think  not 
The  earth,  which  is  thine  outward  cov'ring,  is 
Existence— it  will  cease,  and  thou  wilt  be 
No  less  than  thou  art  now. 

Cain.  No  less  f  and  why 

No  more? 

Jjucifer.  It  may  be  thou  shalt  be  as  we. 

Cain.  And  ye? 

Lucifer.  Are  everlasting. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy? 

Ludfer,  We  are  mighty. 

Cain.  Are  ye  happy? 

Lucifer.  No:  art  thou? 

Cain.  How  should  I  be  so?    Look  on  me! 

Lucifer.  Poor  clay! 

And  thou  pretendest  to  be  wretched!    Thou! 

Cain.  I  am: — and  thou,  with  all  thy  might,  what  art  thou? 

Ludfer.  One  who  aspired  to  be  what  made  thee,  and 
Would  not  have  made  thee  what  thou  art. 

Cain.  Ahl 

Thou  look'st  almost  a  god;  and 

Limfer.  I  am  none: 

And  having  fail'd  to  be  one,  would  be  nought 
Save  what  1  am.    He  conquer'd;  let  Him  reignl 

Cain.  Who? 

Ludfer.  Thy  sire's  Maker,  and  the  earth's. 

Cain.  And  heaven's. 

And  all  that  in  them  Is.     So  I  have  heard 
His  seraphs  sing;  and  so  my  father  saith. 

Lucifer.  They  say — what  they  must  sing  and  eay,  on  pain 
Of  being  that  which  I  am — and  thou  art — 
Of  spirits  and  of  men. 

Cain.  And  what  is  that? 

Ludfer.  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality — 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  Him,  that 
His  evil  is  not  good!    If  He  has  made, 
As  He  saith — which  I  know  not,  nor  believe — 
But,  if  He  made  us — He  cannot  unmake; 
We  are  immortal! — nay.  He'd  have  us  so, 
That  He  may  torture: — let  Him!    He  is  great — 
But,  in  His  greatness,  is  no  happier  than 
We  in  our  conflict!    Goodness  would  not  make 
Evil;  and  what  else  hath  He  made?    But  let  Him 
Sit  on  His  vast  and  solitary  throne, 


*♦ 


ai6  CAIK.  [act  I. 

GresttE^  woMm,  to  make  eUxtdtj 

Leas  bafdoMOiiie  to  His  immeose  4 

And  nnptttiefamted  solttade! 

Let  him  erowa  orb  on  orb:  He  is  alone 

Indeinifte,  indissirfable  tjnmt! 

Coold  He  but  cnub  Himself,  'twere  the  best  boon 

He  erer  zranted:  but,  let  Him  reign  on, 


And  mnmpty  HimseJf  in  ndserf ! 

Spirits  «id  men,  at  least  we  lympatbize— 

And,  snlEering  m  concot,  nudte  oar  pangs, 

InnnmeraUe,  more  oidnnUe, 

Bj  the  nnboonded  srmpatfaj  of  all— 

Withall!    Bat  2Ee/ so  wretebed  in  His  height. 

So  resOeas  in  His  wretdiedness,  most  stm 

Create,  and  re-create 

GUm^  Thon  qieak'st  to  me  of  things  which  long  hare  swam 
In  Tisitms  throos^  mj  thought:  I  never  coold 
Beeoncile  what  I  saw  with  what  I  heard. 
Mr  f$ttheT  and  n^  mother  talk  to  me 
Of  serpents,  and  of  fruits  and  trees:  I  see 
The  gates  of  what  they  call  their  Paradise 
Goaried  hj  flery-sworaed  chembim. 
Which  shut  them  oatf  and  me:  I  feel  the  -wtigaA 
Of  daflj  toQ  and  constant  thoag^:  I  look 
Aioanda  worid  iriiere  I  scctol  nothing,  with 
Tboagfats  wUeh  arise  within  me,  as  tf  they 
Coold  master  aD  things:— bat  I  thon^  atone 
This  ndserf  was  nUne. — Mj  fatho'  is 
Tamed  down;  mj  moUier  has  fcngot  the  mind 
Which  made  her  thirst  for  knowledge  at  the  risk 
Of  an  etermd  carse;  mj  brother  is 
A  watching  shepho'd  bqy,  who  offers  op 
The  firstlings  of  the  flock  to  Him  who  bids 
The  earth  yield  noUiing  to  ns  without  sweat; 
My  sisto*  Zillah  rinss  an  earlier  hymn 
Than  the  birds*  maans;  and  my  Adah,  my 
Own  and  beloved,  die,  too,  nnd^rstMids  not 
The  mind  whieh  orerwhelms  me:  nerer  till 
Now  met  I  aojrtit  to  sympathize  with  me. 
'Us  well— I  r^her  would  consort  with  spirits. 

iMdfer.  And  hadst  thou  not  been  fit  by  thine  own  soul 
'For  soch  companionship,  I  would  not  now 
Have  stood  before  thee  as  I  am:  a  serpent 
Had  been  enonoii  to  charm  ye,  as  before. 

Cain.  Ah!  didst  thou  tompt  my  mother? 

lAuAfer.  I  tempt  none, 

Save  with  the  truth:  was  not  the  tree,  the  tree 
Of  knowledge?  and  was  not  the  tree  of  life 
StiU  fruitful?    Did  /bid  her  plu^k  them  not? 
Did  /phmt  thfaigs  prohibited  withfai 
The  reach  of  beings  innocent,  and  curious 
By  their  own  innocence?    I  would  have  made  ye 
Gods;  and  even  He  who  thrust  ve  forth,  bo  thrust  ye 
Because  "  ye  should  not  eat  the'fruits  of  life. 
And  become  gods  as  We.''    Were  those  His  words? 

Cain,.  They  were,  as  I  have  heard  from  those  who  heard 
In  thunder.  fthem. 


^K 


8CSMBI.] 


CAIN. 


Wt 


Lm^.       Then 'vrho  iras  the  demon?   He 
Who  would  not  let  je  Ure,  or  he  who  would 
Have  made  ye  UTe  fcrerer  in  the  joy 
And  power  of  knowledge? 

Od^  Would  they  had  enaleh'd  both 

The  traits,  or  neither! 

Lm^^  One  is  youm  already; 

The  other  may  he  etilL 

OaiH^  How  80? 

iMcykir.  Bybetng 

Toureelires  In  your  reelstanee*    Nothing:  can 
Quench  thie  mmd,  if  the  mind  will  be  itself 
And  centre  of  surrounding  thing»->'ti8  mi^e 
To8way« 

Oaifk^     But  didst  thou  tempt  my  parents? 

Poor  clay!  what  should  I  tempt  them  fbr,  or  how? 

Qsiiii.  TThey  say  the  serpent  was  a  spirit. 

LmUkTs  Who 

8aith&at?    It  is  not  written  80  on  high: 
The  Proud  One  wiU  not  eo  fur  falsify, 
Though  man*8  vast  fears  and  litUe  'vanity 
Would  make  him  cast  mnm  the  spiritual  nature 
His  own  low  failing.    Tne  snake  toos  the  snake— 
No  more,  and  yet  not  less  than  those  he  tempted. 
In  nature  being  earth  aleo— mors  in  leisdom, 
Since  he  could  overcome  them,  and  foreknew 
The  knowledge  fatal  to  their  narrow  joys. 
Think'st  thou  I'd  take  the  shape  of  tMngs  that  die? 

Cbin.  But  the  thing  had  a  demon? 

iMeykr.  He  but  woke  one 

In  those  he  sptkt  to  with  his  ftoky  tongue. 
I  teU  thee  that  the  seipent  was  no  more 
Than  a  mere  seipent:  ask  the  cherabim 
Who  guard  the  tempting  tree.    When  thousand  ages 
Have  roU'd  o'er  your  dead  ashes,  and  your  seed^s, 
The  seed  of  the  then  world  may  thus  array 
Their  earliest  fault  in  fable,  and  attribute 
To  me  a  shape  I  scorn,  as  I  scorn  all 
That  bows  to  Him,  who  made  things  but  to  bend 
Before  His  suUen.  sole  eternity; 
But  we  who  eee  the  truth  must  speak  it    Thy 
Fond  parents  list^a^d  to  a  creeping  thinar. 
And  fell.    For  what  should  spirita  tempt  them?    What 
Was  there  to  envy  in  the  narrow  bounds 
Of  Paradise,  that  spirits  who  pervade 

Space but  I  sp^ikk  to  thee  of  what  thou  know'st  not. 

With  all  thy  tree  of  knowledge. 

Oaif^  But  thou  canst  not 

Speak  aught  of  knowledge  which  I  would  not  know, 
And  do  not  thirst  to  know,  and  bear  a  mind 
To  know. 

Lmifir,  And  heart  to  look  on? 

Ogin^  Be  it  proved. 

Lmijlf^,  Darest  thou  to  look  on  Death? 

Oahi.  He  has  not  yet 


^ 


248  CAIN.  t^CT  I. 

Lucifer.  But  must  be  undergone. 
Cain.  My  father 

Says  he  is  something  dreadful,  and  my  mother 
Weeps  when  he  is  named;  and  Abel  lifts  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  and  Zillah  casts  hers  to  the  earth, 
And  sighs  a  prayer;  and  Adah  looks  on  me, 
And  speaks  not. 
Lucifer.  And  thou? 

Cain.  Thoughts  unspeakable 

Crowd  in  my  breast  to  burning,  when  I  hear 
Of  this  almighty  Death,  who  is,  it  eecms, 
Inevitable.     Could  I  wrestle  with  him? 
I  wrestled  with  the  lion,  when  a  boy, 
In  play,  till  he  ran  roaring  from  my  gripe. 

Lucifer.  It  has  no  shape:  but  will  absorb  all  things 
That  bear  the  form  of  earth-bom  being. 

Cam.  Ah! 

I  thought  it  was  a  being:  who  could  do 
Such  evil  things  to  being  save  a  being? 
Lucifer.  Ask  the  Destroyer. 
Cain.  Who? 

Lucifer.  The  Maker— call  Him 

W^hich  name  thou  wilt;  He  makes  but  to  destrov. 

Cain.  I  knew  not  that,  yet  thought  it,  since  I  heard 
Of  death:  although  I  know  not  what  it  is, 
Yet  it  seems  horrible.    I  have  look'd  out 
In  the  vast  desolate  night  in  search  of  him; 
And  when  I  saw  gigantic  shadows  in 
The  umbrage  of  the  walls  of  Eden,  chequer'd 
By  the  far-Hashing  of  the  cherubs'  swords, 
I  watch'd  for  what  I  thought  his  coming;  for 
With  fear  rose  longing  in  my  heart  to  know 
What  'twas  which  shook  us  all— but  nothing  came. 
And  then  I  tum'd  my  weary  eyes  from  off 
Our  native  and  forbidden  Paradise, 
Up  to  the  lights  above  us,  in  the  azure. 
Which  are  so  beautiful:  shall  they,  too,  die? 
Lucifer.  Perhaps— but  long  outlive  both  thine  and  thee. 
Cain.  I'm  glad  of  that:  I  would  not  have  them  die- 
They  are  so  lovely.    What  is  death?    I  fear, 
I  feel,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing;  but  what, 
I  cannot  compass:  'tis  denounced  against  us. 
Both  them  who  sinn'd  and  sinn'd  not,  as  an  ill — 
What  ill? 
Ludfcr.  To  be  resolved  into  the  earth. 
Cain.  But  shall  I  know  it? 

Jjucifcr.  As  I  know  not  death, 

I  cannot  answer. 

Cain.  Were  I  quiet  earth. 

That  were  not  evil:  would  I  ne'er  had  been 
Aught  else  but  dust! 

Lucifer.  That  is  a  grovelling  wish, 

Less  than  thy  father's,  for  he  wish'd  to  laiow. 

Cain.  But  not  to  live,  or  wherefore  pluck'd  he  net 
The  life-tree? 
Lucifer.  He  was  hlnder'd. 

Cain,  Deadly  error! 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


249 


Not  to  snatch  first  that  fruit: — but  ere  he  pluck'd 
The  knowledge,  he  was  ignorant  of  death. 
Alas!  I  scarcely  now  know  what  it  is, 
And  yet  I  fear  it — fear  I  know  not  what  I 

Lticifer.  And  I,  who  know  all  things,  fear  nothing:  see 
What  is  true  knowledge. 

Cain.  Wilt  thou  teach  me  all? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  upon  one  condition. 

Cain.  Name  it. 

iMcifer.  That 

Thou  dost  fall  down  and  worship  me— thy  Lord. 

Gain.  Thou  art  not  the  Lord  my  father  worships. 

Lucifer.  No. 

Gain.  His  equal? 

Lucifer.  No :  I  have  nought  in  common  with  Him ! 

Nor  would;  I  would  be  aught  above — beneath — 
Aught  save  a  sharer  or  a  servant  of 
His  power.    I  dwell  apart;  but  I  am  great: — 
Many  there  are  who  worship  me,  and  more 
Who  shall — be  thou  amongst  the  first. 

Gain.  I  never 

As  yet  have  bow'd  unto  my  father's  God, 
Although  my  brother  Abel  oft  implores 
That  I  would  join  with  him  in  sacrifice: — 
Why  should  I  bow  to  thee? 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  bowed 

To  Him? 

Gain.       Have  I  not  said  it? — neea  I  say  it? 
Could  not  thy  mighty  knowledge  teach  thee  that? 

Lucifer.  He  who  bows  not  to  Him  has  bow'd  to  me  I 

Gain.  But  I  will  bend  to  neither. 

Lucifer.  Ne'er  the  less, 

Thou  art  my  worshipper:  not  worshipping 
Him  makes  thee  mine  the  same. 

Gain.  And  what  is  that? 

Lucifer.  Thou'lt  know  here — and  hereafter. 

Gain.  Let  me  but 

Be  taught  the  mystery  of  my  being. 

Lucifer.  Follow 

Where  I  will  lead  thee. 

Gain.                                But  I  must  retire 
To  till  the  earth — for  I  had  promised 

Lucifer.  What? 

Gain.  To  cull  some  first-fruits. 

Lucfer.  Why? 

Cain.  To  offer  up 

With  Abel  on  an  altar. 

Lucifer.  Saidst  thou  not 

Thou  ne'er  hadst  bent  to  Him  who  made  thee? 

Cain.                                                                          Yes — 
But  Abel's  earnest  prayer  has  wrought  upon  me; 
The  offering  is  more  his  than  mine — and  Adah 

Lucifer.  Why  dost  thou  hesitate? 

Cain.  She  is  my  sister, 

Bom  on  the  same  day,  of  the  same  womb:  and 
She  wrung  from  me,  with  tears,  this  promise; 


HI- 


^ 

250  CAIN.  UcTi. 

Rather  than  see  her  weep,  I  would,  methinks. 
Bear  all— and  worship  aught, 

Lucifer,  Then  follow  me  I 

Cain.  I  will. 

Enter  Adah. 

Adah.  My  brother,  I  have  come  for  thee; 

It  is  our  hour  of  rest  and  ioy — and  we 
Have  less  without  thee.     Thou  hast  labored  not 
This  mom;  but  I  have  done  thy  task:  the  fruits 
Are  ripe,  and  glowing  as  the  light  which  rix^ens: 
Come  away. 

Cain.  Seest  thou  not? 

Adah.  I  see  an  angel: 

TVe  have  seen  many:  will  he  share  our  hour 
Of  rest? — he  is  welcome. 

Cain.  But  he  is  not  like 

The  angels  we  have  seen. 

Adah.  Are  there,  then,  others? 

But  he  is  welcome,  as  they  were:  they  deign'd 
To  be  our  guests — will  he? 

Cain  {to  Litcifer).  Wilt  thou? 

Jjuoifcr.  I  ask 

Thee  to  be  mine. 

Cain.  I  must  away  with  him. 

Adah.  And  leave  us? 

Cain.  Ay. 

Adah.  And  me  ? 

Cain.  Beloved  Adah! 

Adah.  Let  me  go  with  thee. 

Lucifer.  No,  she  must  not. 

Aduh.  Who 

Art  thou  that  steppest  between  heart  and  heart? 

Cain.  He  is  a  god. 

Adah.  How  know'st  thou? 

Cain.  He  speaks  like 

A  god. 

Adah.  So  did  the  serpent,  and  it  lied. 

Lucifer.  Thou  errest,  Adah! — was  not  the  tree  that 
Of  knowledge? 

Adah.  Ay — to  our  eternal  sorrow. 

Lurcifer.  And  yet  that  grief  is  knowledge — so  he  lied  not: 
And  if  he  did  betray  you,  'twas  with  truth: 
And  truth  in  its  own  essence  cannot  be 
But  good. 

Amh.         But  all  we  know  of  it  has  gather'd 
Evil  on  ill:  expulsion  from  our  home, 
And  dread,  and  toil,  and  sweat,  and  heaviness; 
Remorse  of  that  which  was — and  hope  of  that 
Which  Cometh  not.    Cain!  walk  not  with  this  spirit. 
Bear  with  what  we  have  borne,  and  love  me — I 
Love  thee. 

Lucifer.  More  than  thy  mother,  and  thy  sire? 

Adah.  I  do.    Is  that  a  sin,  too? 

Lucifer.  No,  not  yet: 

It  one  day  will  be  In  your  children. 

♦* jfc* 


*iir 


i. 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


251 


Adah.  What! 

Mnst  not  my  daughter  love  her  brother  Enoch? 

Lttcifer.  Not  as  thou  lovest  Cain. 

Adah.  Oh!  my  God! 

Shall  they  not  love,  and  bring  forth  things  that  love 
Out  of  their  love?  have  they  not  drawn  their  milk 
Out  of  this  bosom?  was  not  he,  their  father. 
Bom  of  the  same  sole  womb,  in  the  same  hour 
With  me?    Did  we  not  love  each  other?  and 
In  multiplying  our  being  multiply 
Things  which  will  love  each  other  as  we  love 
Them? — And  as  I  love  thee,  my  Cain!  go  not 
Forth  with  this  spirit;  he  is  not  of  ours. 

Lucifer.  The  sin  I  speak  of  is  not  of  my  making, 
And  cannot  be  a  sin  in  you — whate'er 
It  seem  in  those  who  will  replace  ye  in 
Mortality. 

Adah.        What  is  the  sin  which  is  not 
Sin  in  itself?    Can  circumstance  make  sin 
Or  virtue? — if  it  doth,  we  are  the  slaves 
Of 

Lucifer.  Higher  things  than  ye  are  slaves:  and  higher 
Than  them  or  ye  would  be  so,  did  they  not 
Prefer  an  independency  of  torture 
To  the  smooth  agonies  of  adulation, 
In  hymns  and  harpings,  and  self-seeking  prayers, 
To  that  which  is  omnipotent,  because 
It  is  omnipotent,  and  not  from  love. 
But  terror  and  self-hope. 

Adah.  Omnipotence 

Must  be  all  goodness. 

iMcifer.  Was  it  so  in  Eden? 

Adah.  Fiend!  tempt  me  not  with  beauty;  thou  art  fairer 
Than  was  the  serpent,  and  as  false. 

Lucifer.  As  true. 

Ask  Eve,  your  mother:  bears  she  not  the  knowledge 
Of  good  and  evil? 

Adah.  Oh,  my  mother!  thou 

Hast  pluck'd  a  fruit  more  fatal  to  thine  offspring 
Than  to  thyself;  thou  at  the  least  hast  pass'd 
Thy  youth  in  Paradise,  in  innocent 
And  happy  intercourse  with  happy  spirits: 
But  we,  thy  children,  ignorant  of  Eden, 
Are  girt  about  by  demons,  who  assume 
The  words  of  God,  and  tempt  us  with  our  own 
Dissatisfied  a^id  curious  thoughts — as  thou 
Wert  work'd  on  by  the  snake,  in  thy  most  flush'd 
And  heedless,  harmless  wantonness  of  bliss. 
I  cannot  answer  this  immortal  thing 
Which  stanas  before  me;  I  cannot  abhor  him; 
I  look  upon  him  with  a  pleasing  fear. 
And  yet  I  fly  not  from  him:  in  his  eye 
There  is  a  fastening  attraction  which 
Fixes  my  fluttering  eyes  on  his;  my  heart 
Beats  quick;  he  awes  me,  and  yet  draws  me  near, 
Nearer,  and  nearer: — Cain — Cain — save  me  from  himi 

Cain.  Wl^t  dreada^my  Adah?    This  is  no  ill  spirit. 


iK 


^ : -^ 

253  CAIN.  [ACT  I. 

Adah.  He  is  not  God — nor  God's:  I  have  beheld 
The  cherubs  and  the  seraphs;  he  looks  not 
Like  them. 

Cam.  But  there  are  spirits  loftier  still — 

The  archangels. 

Liccifer.  And  still  loftier  than  the  archangels. 

Adah.  Ay — but  not  blessed. 

Lucifer.  If  the  blessedness 

Consists  in  slavery — ^no. 

Adah.  I  have  heard  it  said, 

The  seraphs  love  most — cherubim  know  most — 
And  this  should  be  a  cherub — since  he  loves  not. 

Lucifer.  And  if  the  higher  knowledge  quenches  lovp, 
What  must  he  he  you  cannot  love  when  known? 
Since  the  all-knowing  cherubim  love  least, 
The  seraphs'  love  can  be  but  ignorance: 
That  they  are  not  compatible,  the  doom 
Of  thy  fond  parents,  for  their  daring,  proves. 
Choose  betwixt  love  and  knowledge — since  there  Is 
No  other  choice:  your  sire  hath  chosen  already; 
His  worship  is  but  fear. 

Adah.  Oh,  Cain!  choose  love. 

Cain.  For  thee,  my  Adah,  I  choose  not — it  was 
Born  with  me — but  I  love  nought  else. 

Adah.  Our  parents? 

Cain.  Did  they  love  us  when  they  snatch'd  from  the  tree 
That  which  hath  driven  us  all  from  Paradise? 

Adah.  We  were  not  born  then — and  if  we  had  been. 
Should  we  not  love  them  and  our  children,  Cain? 

Cain.  My  little  Enoch!  and  his  lisping  sisterl 
Could  I  but  deem  them  happy,  I  would  half 

Forget but  it  can  never  be  forgotten 

Through  twice  a  thousand  generations!  never 

Shall  men  love  the  remembrance  of  the  man 

Who  sow'd  the  seed  of  evil  and  mankind 

In  the  same  hour!    They  pluck' d  the  tree  of  science 

And  sin — and,  not  content  with  their  own  sorrow. 

Begot  m£ — thee — and  all  the  few  that  are. 

And  all  the  unnumber'd  and  innumerable 

Multitudes,  millions,  myriads,  which  may  be. 

To  inherit  agonies  accumulated 

By  ages! — and  /  must  be  sire  of  such  thingsl 

Thy  beauty  and  thy  love — my  love  and  joy, 

The  rapturous  moment  and  the  placid  hour. 

All  we  love  in  our  children  and  each  other, 

But  lead  them  and  ourselves  through  many  years 

Of  sin  and  pain — or  few,  but  still  of  sorrow, 

Intercheck'd  with  an  instant  of  brief  pleasure. 

To  Death — the  unknown!     Methinks  the  tree  of  knowledge 

Hath  not  fulflll'd  its  promise: — if  they  sinn'd, 

At  least  they  ought  to  have  known  all  things  that  are 

Of  knowledge—and  the  mystery  of  death. 

Wliat  do  they  know' — that  they  are  miserable. 

What  need  of  snakes  and  fruits  to  teach  us  that? 

Adah.  I  am  not  wretched,  Cain,  and  if  thou 
Wert  happy 

Cain,  Be  thou  happy,  then,  alone — 


^^ 


r 


-IH- 


SCENE  1.3 


CAIN. 


253 


I  will  have  nought  to  do  with  happiness 
Which  humbles  me  and  mine. 

Adah.  Alone  I  could  not, 

Nor  would  be  happy:  but  with  those  around  us, 
I  thhik  I  could  be  so,  despite  of  death, 
Which,  as  I  know  it  not,  I  dread  not,  though 
It  seems  an  awful  shadow — if  I  may 
Judge  from  what  I  have  heard. 

Lucifer.  And  thou  couldst  not 

Alone,  thou  say'st,  be  happy? 

Adah.  Alone!  Oh,  my  God  I 

Who  could  be  happy  and  alone,  or  good? 
To  me  ray  solitude  seems  sin;  unless 
When  I  think  hoAV  soon  I  shall  see  my  brother. 
His  brother,  and  our  children,  and  our  parents. 

Lucifer.  Yet  thy  God  is  alone,  and  is  He  happy? 
Lonely,  and  good? 

Adah.  He  is  not  so;  He  hath 

The  angels  and  the  mortals  to  make  happy, 
And  thus  becomes  so  in  diffusing  joy. 
What  else  can  joy  be,  but  the  spreading  joy? 

Lucifer.  Ask  of  your  sire,  the  exile  fresh  from  Eden; 
Or  of  his  first-bom  sou:  ask  your  own  heart- 
It  is  not  tranquil. 

Adah.  Alas!  no!  and  you — 

Are  you  of  heaven? 

Liccifer.  If  I  am  not,  inquire 

The  cause  of  this  all-spreading  happiness 
(Which  you  proclaim)  of  the  all-great  and  good 
Maker  of  life  and  living  things;  it  is 
His  secret,  and  He  keeps  it.     We  must  bear, 
And  some  of  us  resist,  and  both  in  vain. 
His  seraphs  say;  but  it  is  worth  the  trial. 
Since  better  may  not  be  without:  there  is 
A  wisdom  in  the  spirit,  which  directs 
To  right,  as  in  the  dim  blue  air  the  eye 
Of  you,  young  mortals,  lights  at  once  upon 
The  star  which  watches,  welcoming  the  mom. 

Adah.  It  is  a  beautiful  star;  I  love  it  for  its  beauty. 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  adore? 

Adah.  Oiu"  father 

Adores  the  Invisible  only. 

Lucifer.  But  the  symbols 

Of  the  Invisible  are  the  loveliest 
Of  what  is  visible;  and  yon  bright  star 
Is  leader  of  the  host  of  heaven. 

Adah.  Our  father 

Saith  that  he  has  beheld  the  God  himself 
Who  made  him  and  our  mother. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  seen  Him? 

Adah.  Yes — in  His  works. 

Lucifer.  But  in  His  being? 

Adah.  /  No — 

Save  in  my  father,  T.^ho  is  God's  own  image; 
Or  in  His  angels,  who  are  like  to  thee — 
And  brighter,  yet  less  beautiful  and  powerful 
In  seeming:  as  the  silent  sunny  noon, 


** 


Ht 


4k 


254  CAIN.  [ACT  I. 

All  light  they  look  upon  us;  but  thou  seem'st 

Like  an  ethereal  night,  where  long  white  clouds 

Streak  the  deep  purple,  and  unnumbered  stars 

Spangle  the  wonderful  mysterious  vault 

With  things  that  look  as  if  they  would  be  suns;        * 

So  beautiful,  unnumber'd,  and  endearing, 

Not  dazzling,  and  yet  drawing  us  to  them. 

They  fill  m  v  eyes  with  tears,  and  so  dost  thou. 

Thou  seem'st  unhappy:  do  not  make  us  so, 

And  I  will  weep  for  thee. 

Lucifer.                              Alas!  those  tears! 
Couldst  thou  but  know  what  oceans  will  be  shed 

Adah.  By  me? 
'  iMcifer.  By  all. 

Adah.  What  all? 

Lucifer.  The  million  millions 

The  myriad  myriads — the  all-peopled  earth — 
The  unpeopled  earth — and  the  o'er-peopledhell. 
Of  which  thy  bosom  is  the  germ. 

Adah.  O  Cain! 

This  spirit  curseth  us. 

Cain.  Let  him  say  on; 

Him  will  I  follow. 

Adah.  Whither? 

Lucifer.  To  a  place 

Wlicncc  he  shall  come  back  to  thee  in  an  hour; 
But  in  that  hour  see  things  of  many  days. 

Adah.  How  can  that  be? 

Ludfcr.  Did  not  your  Maker  make 

Out  of  old  worlds  this  new  one  in  a  few  days? 
And  cannot  I,  who  aided  in  this  work. 
Show  in  an  hour  what  He  hath  made  in  many. 
Or  hath  destroyed  in  few? 

Cain.  Lead  on. 

Adah.  Will  he, 

In  sooth,  return  with  an  hour? 

Lmifer.  He  shall. 

With  us  acts  are  exempt  from  time,  and  we 
Can  crowd  eternity  into  an  hour. 
Or  stretch  an  hour  into  eternity: 
We  breathe  not  by  a  mortal  measurement — 
But  that  'r  a  mystery.     Cain,  come  on  with  me. 

Adah.  Will  he  return? 

Lucifer.  Ay,  woman!  he  alone 

Of  mortals  from  that  place  (the  first  and  last 
Who  shall  return,  save  One)— shall  come  back  to  thee. 
To  make  that  silent  and  expectant  world 
As  populous  as  this:  at  present  there 
Are  few  inhabitants. 

Adah.  Where  dwellest  thou? 

Lucifer.  Throughout  all  space.    Where  should  I  dwell? 
Where  are 
Thy  God  or  Gods — there  am  I:  all  things  ure 
Divided  with  me;  life  and  death — and  rime — 
Eternity — and  heaven  and  earth — and  that 
Which  is  not  heaven  nor  earth,  but  peopled  with 
Those  who  onco  peopled  or  shall  people  both— 


♦it 


SCEXE  I.]  CAIN.  255 

These  are  my  realms!    So  that  I  do  divide 
Mis,  and  possess  a  kingdom  which  is  not 
Ifis.    If  I  were  not  that  which  I  have  said, 
Could  I  stand  here?    His  angels  are  within 
Your  vision. 

Adah.  So  they  were  when  the  fair  serpent 

Spoke  with  our  mother  first. 

Lucifer.  Cain!  thou  hast  heard. 

If  thou  dost  long  for  knowledge,  I  can  satiate 
That  thirst;  nor  ask  thee  to  partake  of  fruits 
Which  shall  deprive  thee  of  a  single  good 
The  conqueror  has  left  thee.    Follow  me. 

Cain.  Spirit,  I  have  said  it. 

{Exeunt  Lucifer  and  OaLiN. 

Adah  (fdloios,  exclaiming)  Cain!  my  brother!  Cain! 


ACT  II. 


The  Abyss  of  Space. 

Cain.  I  tread  on  air,  and  sink  not;  yet  I  fear 
To  sink. 

Lucifer.  Have  faith  in  me,  and  thou  shalt  be 
Borne  on  the  air,  of  which  I  am  the  prince. 

Cam.  Can  I  do  so  without  impiety? 

Lucifer.  Believe — and  sink  not!  doubt — and  perish!  thus 
Would  run  the  edict  of  the  other  God, 
Who  names  me  demon  to  His  angels;  they 
Echo  the  sound  to  miserable  things. 
Which,  knowing  nought  beyond  their  shallow  senses, 
Worship  the  word  which  strikes  their  ear,  and  deem 
Evil  or  good  what  is  proclaim'd  to  them 
In  their  abasement.     I  will  have  none  such: 
Worship  or  worship  not,  thou  shalt  behold 
The  worlds  bQyond  thy  little  world,  nor  be 
Amerced  for  doubts  beyond  thy  little  life, 
With  torture  of  my  dooming.     There  will  come 
An  hour,  when,  toss'd  upon  some  water-drops, 
A  man  shall  say  to  a  man,  "  Believe  in  me, 
And  walk  the  waters;"  and  the  man  shall  walk 
The  billows  and  be  safe.    /  will  not  say, 
Believe  in  nie,  as  a  conditional  creed 
To  save  thee;  but  fly  with  me  o'er  the  gulf 
Of  space  an  equal  flight,  and  I  will  show 
What  thou  dar'st  not  deny— the  history 
Of  past,  and  present,  and  of  future  worlds. 

Cain.  Oh,  god,  or  demon,  or  whate'er  thou  art, 
Is  yon  our  earth? 

Lucifer.  Dost  thou  not  recognize 

The  dust  which  form'd  your  father? 

Cain.  Can  it  be? 

Yon  small  blue  circle,  swinging  in  far  ether, 

**— — — i* 


H^ 


^K 


^h 


CAIN. 


[act  II. 


With  an  inferior  circlet  near  it  still, 
Which  looks  like  that  which  lit  our  earthly  night? 
Is  this  our  Paradise?    Where  are  its  walls, 
And  they  who  guard  them? 

Liicifer.  Point  me  out  the  site 

Of  Paradise. 

Cain.  How  should  I?    As  we  move 

Like  sunbeams  onward,  it  grows  small  and  smaller, 
And  as  it  waxes  little,  and  then  less. 
Gathers  a  halo  round  it  like  the  light 
Which  shone  the  roundest  of  the  stars,  when  I 
Beheld  them  from  the  skirts  of  Paradise? 
Methinks  they  both,  as  we  recede  from  them, 
Appear  to  join  the  innumerable  stars 
Which  are  around  us;  and,  as  we  move  on, 
Increase  their  myriads. 

Lucifer.  And  if  there  should  be 

Worlds  greater  than  thine  own,  inhabited 
By  greater  things,  and  they  themselves  far  more 
In  number  than  the  dust  of  thy  dull  earth. 
Though  multiplied  to  animated  atoms. 
All  living,  and  all  doom'd  to  death,  and  wretched. 
What  wouldst  thou  think? 

Cain.  I  should  be  proud  of  thought 

Which  knew  such  things. 

Lucifer.                                But  if  that  high  thought  were 
Link'd  to  a  servile  mass  of  matter,  and. 
Knowing  such  things,  aspiring  to  such  things. 
And  science  still  beyond  them,  were  chain 'd  down 
To  the  most  gross  and  petty  paltry  wants, 
All  foul  and  fulsome,  and  the  very  best 
Of  thine  enjoyments  a  sweet  degradation, 
A  most  enervating  and  filthy  cheat 
To  lure  thee  on  to  the  renewal  of 
Fresh  souls  and  bodies,  all  foredoom'd  to  be 
As  frail,  and  few  so  happy 

Cam.  Spirit!  I 

Know  noiight  of  death,  save  as  a  dreadful  thing 
Of  which  i  have  heard  my  parents  speak,  as  of 
A  hideous  heritage  I  owe  to  them 
No  less  than  life;  a  heritage  not  happy. 
If  I  may  judge,  till  now.     But,  Spirit!  if 
It  be  as  thou  hast  said  (and  I  within 
Feel  the  prophetic  torture  of  its^truth), 
Here  let  me  die:  for  to  give  birth  to  those 
Who  can  but  suffer  many  years,  and  die, 
Methinks  is  merely  propagating  death, 
And  multiplying  murder. 

Lucifer.  Thou  canst  not 

All  die— there  Is  what  must  survive. 

Cam.  The  Other 

Spake  not  of  this  unto  my  father,  when 
He  shut  him  forth  from  Paradise,  with  death 
Written  upon  his  forehead.     But  at  least 
Let  what  is  mortal  of  me  perish,  that 
1  may  be  in  the  rest  as  angels  are. 

Luc\f€r.  I  am  angelic:  wouldst  thou  be  as  I  am? 


r 


ii- 


^K 


SCENE  I.J 


CAIN. 


257 


Cain.  I  know  not  what  thou  art:  I  see  thy  power, 
And  see  thou  show'st  me  things  beyond  my  power, 
Beyond  all  power  of  my  born  faculties, 
Although  inferior  still  to  my  desires 
And  my  conceptions. 

LiMnfer.  What  are  they  which  dwell 

So  humbly  in  their  pride,  as  to  sojourn 
With  worms  in  clay? 

Cain.  And  what  art  thou  who  dwellest 

So  haughtily  in  spirit,  and  canst  range 
Nature  and  immortality — and  yet 
Seem'st  sorrowful? 

Lucifer.  I  seem  that  which  I  am; 

And  therefore  do  I  ask  of  thee,  if  thou 
Wouldst  be  immortal? 

Cain.  Thou  hast  said,  I  must  be 

Immortal  in  despite  of  me.     I  knew  not 
This  until  lately — but  since  it  must  be. 
Let  me,  or  happy  or  unhappy,  learn 
To  anticipate  my  immortality. 

Lucifer.  Thou  didst  before  I  came  upon  thee. 

Cain.  How? 

Lucifer.  By  suffering. 

Cain.  And  must  torture  be  immortal? 

Lucifer.  We  and  thy  sons  will  try.    But  now,  behold  1 
Is  it  not  glorious? 

Cain.  Oh,  thou  beautiful 

And  unimaginable  ether!  and 
Ye  multiplying  masses  of  increased 
And  still  increasing  lights!  what  are  ye?  what 
Is  this  blue  wilderness  of  interminable 
Air,  where  ye  roll  along,  as  I  have  seen 
The  leaves  along  the  limpid  streams  of  Eden? 
Is  your  course  measured  for  ye?    Or  do  ye 
Sweep  on  in  your  unbounded  revelry 
Through  an  aerial  universe  of  endless 
Expansion — at  which  my  soul  aches  to  think — 
Intoxicated  with  eternity? 
O  God!  O  Gods!  or  whatsoe'er  ye  are! 
How  beautiful  ye  are!  how  beautiful 
Your  works,  or  accidents,  or  whatsoe'er 
They  may  be!    Let  me  die,  as  atoms  die, 
(If  that  they  die,)  or  know  ye  in  your  might 
And  knowledge!    My  thoughts  are  not  in  this  hour 
Unworthy  what  I  see,  though  my  dust  is; 
Spirit!  let  me  expire,  or  see  them  nearer. 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  nearer?  look  back  to  thine  earthi 

Cai7i.  Where  is  it?    I  see  nothing  save  a  mass 
Of  most  innumerable  lights. 

Lucifer »  Look  there! 

Cain.  I  cannot  see  it. 

Lucifer.  Yet  it  sparkles  still. 

Cam.  That! — yonder! 

Lucifer,  Yea. 

Cain.  And  wilt  thou  tell  me  bo? 

Why,  I  have  seen  the  flre-flies  and  lire-worms 
Sprinkle  the  dusky  groves  and  the  green  banks 


Hi- 


ft- 

258  CAIN.  [ACT  n. 

In  the  dim  twilight,  brighter  than  yon  world 
Which  bears  them. 

Lucifer.  Thou  hast  seen  both  worms  and  worlds, 
Each  bright  and  sparkling— what  dost  think  of  them? 

Cain.  That  they  are  beautiful  in  their  own  sphere, 
And  that  the  night,  which  makes  both  beautiful, 
The  little  shining  fire-fly  in  its  flight, 
And  the  immortal  btar  in  its  great  course, 
Must  both  be  guided. 

Lucifer.  But  by  whom  or  what? 

Cain.  Show  me. 

Lucifer.  Dar'st  thou  behold? 

Cain.  How  know  I  what 

I  dare  behold?    As  yet,  thou  hast  shown  nought 
I  dare  not  gaze  on  further. 

Lucifer.  On,  then,  with  me.  » 

Wouldst  thou  behold  things  mortal  or  immortal? 

Cain.  Why,  what  are  things? 

Lucifer.  Both  partly:  but  what  doth 

Sit  next  thy  heart? 

Cain.  The  things  I  see. 

Lucifer.  But  what 

Sate  nearest  it? 

Cain.  The  things  I  have  not  seen. 

Nor  ever  shall — the  mysteries  of  death. 

Lucifer.  What,  if  I  show  to  thee  things  which  have  died, 
As  I  have  shown  thee  much  which  cannot  die? 

Cain.  Do  so. 

Lucifer.  Away,  then!  on  our  mighty  wings. 

Cain.  Oh!  how  we  cleave  the  blue!  The  stars  fade  from  us! 
The  earth!  where  is  ray  earth?    Let  me  look  on  it. 
For  I  was  made  of  it. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  now  beyond  thee, 

Less,  in  the  universe,  than  thou  in  it; 
Yet  deem  not  that  thou  canst  escape  it:  thou 
Shalt  soon  return  to  earth,  and  all  its  dust: 
'Tis  part  of  thy  eternity,  and  mine. 

Cain.  Where  dost  thou  lead  meV 

Lucifer.  To  v/hat  was  before  thee  I 

The  phantasm  of  the  world;  of  which  thy  world 
Is  but  the  wreck. 

Cain.  What!  is  it  not  then  new? 

Lucifer.  No  more  than  life  is;  and  that  was  ere  thou 
Or  /were,  or  the  things  which  seem  to  us 
Greater  than  either:  many  things  will  have 
No  end;  and  some,  which  would  pretend  to  have 
Had  no  beginning,  have  had  one  as  mean 
As  thou;  and  mightier  things  have  been  extinct 
To  make  way  for  much  meaner  than  we  can 
Surmiss;  for  moments  only  and  the  .space 
Have  been  and  must  be  all  unchayu/edble. 
But  changes  make  not  death,  except  to  clay: 
But  thou  art  clay,— and  canst  but  comprehend 
That  which  was  clay,  and  such  thou  shalt  behold. 

Cain.  Clay,  spirit!  what  thou  wilt,  I  can  survey. 

Lu<;ifer.  Away,  then! 

Cain.  But  the  lights  fade  from  me  fast, 

— «♦ 


Jk 


BCBNB  I.] 


CAIN. 


And  some  till  now  grew  larger  as  we  approach 'd, 
And  wore  the  look  of  worlds. 

Lucifer.  And  such  they  are. 

Cain.  And  Edens  in  them? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be. 

Cain.  And  men? 

Lucifer.  Yea,  or  things  higher. 

Cain.  Ay?  and  serpents  too? 

Lucifer.  Wouldst  thou  have  men  without  them?  must  no 
reptiles 
Breathe  save  the  erect  ones? 

Cain.  How  the  lights  recede; 

"Where  fly  we? 

Lucifer.  To  the  'v^orld  of  phantoms,  which 

Are  beings  past,  and  shadows  still  to  come. 

Cain.  But  it  grows  dark  and  dark — the  stars  are  gone! 

Lucifer.  And  yet  thou  seest. 

Cain.  'Tis  a  fearful  light! 

No  sun,  no  moon,  no  lights  innumerable. 
The  very  blue  of  the  empurpled  night 
Fades  to  a  dreary  twilight,  yet  I  see 
Huge  dusky  masses;  but  unlike  the  worlds 
We  were  approaching,  which,  begirt  with  light, 
Seem'd  full  of  life  even  when  their  atmosphere 
Of  light  gave  way,  and  show'd  them  taking  shapes 
Unequal,  of  deep  valleys  and  vast  mountains; 
And  some  emitting  sparks,  and  some  displaying 
Enormous  liquid  plains,  and  some  begirt 
With  luminous  belts,  and  floating  moons,  which  took, 
Like  them,  the  features  of  fair  earth: — instead, 
All  here  seems  dark  and  dreadful. 

Lucifer.  But  distinct. 

Thou  seekest  to  behold  death,  and  dead  things? 

Cain.  I  seek  it  not:  but  as  t  know  there  are 
Such,  and  that  my  sire's  sin  makes  him  and  me, 
And  all  that  we  inherit,  liable 
To  such,  I  would  behold  at  once,  what  I 
Must  one  day  see  perforce. 

LMifer.  Behold! 

Cain.  'Tis  darkness. 

Lucifer.  And  so  it  shall  be  ever;  but  we  will 
Unfold  its  gates! 

Cain.  Enormous  vapors  roll 

Apart — what's  this? 

Lucifer.  Enter! 

Cain.  Can  I  return? 

Ludjcr.  Return!  be  sure:  how  else  should  death  be  peopled? 
Its  present  realm  is  thin  to  what  it  will  be, 
Through  thee  and  thine. 

Cain.  The  clouds  still  open  wide 

And  wider,  and  make  widening  circles  round  us. 

Lucifer.  Advance! 

Cain.  And  thou! 

Lucifer.  Fear  not— without  me  thou 

Couldst  not  have  gone  beyond  thy  world.     On!  on! 

[They  disappear  thrcmgh  the  clouds. 


^^♦ 


•ih 


260  CAIN.  [ACT  n. 


SCENE  II. 

Sades. 
Mtter  LuciTER  and  Cain. 

Cain.  How  silent  and  how  vast  are  these  dim  worlds! 
For  they  seem  more  than  one,  and  yet  more  peopled 
Than  the  huge  brilliant  luminous  orbs  which  swun^ 
So  thickly  in  the  upper  air,  that  I 
Had  deem'd  them  rather  the  bright  populace 
Of  some  all  unimaginable  heaven, 
Than  things  to  be  inhabited  themselves. 
But  that  on  drawing  near  them  I  beheld 
Their  swelling  into  palpable  immensity 
Of  matter,  which  seem'd  made  for  life  to  dwell  on, 
Rather  than  life  itself.     But  here,  all  is 
So  shadowy  and  so  full  of  twilight,  that 
It  speaks  of  a  day  past. 

Lucifer.  It  is  the  realm 

Of  death. — Wouldst  have  it  present? 

Cain.  Till  I  know 

That  which  it  really  is,  I  cannot  answer. 
But  if  it  be  as  I  have  heard  my  father 
Deal  out  in  his  long  homilies,  'tis  a  thing — 
Oh  God!  I  dare  not  think  on't!    Cursed  be 
He  who  invented  life  that  leads  to  death! 
Or  the  dull  mass  of  life,  that,  being  life. 
Could  not  retain,  but  needs  must  forfeit  it — 
Even  for  the  innocent! 

Jjudfer.  Dost  thou  curse  thy  fatherl 

Cain.  Cursed  he  not  me  in  giving  me  my  birth? 
Cursed  he  not  ma  before  my  birth,  in  daring 
To  pluck  the  fruit  forbidden? 

Lit^ifer.  Thou  say'st  well: 

The  curse  is  mutual  'twixt  thy  sire  and  thee — 
But  for  thy  sons  and  brother? 

Cain.  Let  them  share  it 

With  me,  their  sire  and  brother?    What  else  is 
Bequeath'd  to  me?    I  leave  them  my  inheritance. 
Oh,  ye  interminable  gloomy  realms 
Of  swimming  shadows  and  enormous  shapes, 
Some  fully  shown,  some  Indistinct,  and  all 
Mighty  and  melancholy — what  are  ye? 
Live  ye,  or  have  ye  lived? 

Lucifer.  Somewhat  of  both. 

Cain.  Then  what  is  death? 

Lucifer.  What  I  Hath  not  He  who  made  ye 

Said  'tis  another  life? 
^  Cain.  Till  now  He  hath 

Said  nothing,  save  that  all  shall  die. 

Liicifer.  Perhaps 

He  one  day  will  unfold  that  further  secret. 

Cain.  Happy  the  dayl 

Liunfer.  Yes,  happy!  when  unfolded 

Through  agonies  unspeakable,  and  clogg'd 


I 


ih" 


SCENE  II.] 


CAIN. 


261 


With  agonies  eternal,  to  innumerable 
Yet  unborn  myriads  of  unconscious  atoms, 
All  to  be  animated  for  this  onlyl 

Cai7i.  What  are  these  mighty  phantoms  which  I  see 
Floating  around  me? — They  wear  not  the  form 
Of  the  intelligences  I  have  seen 
Round  our  regretted  and  unenter'd  Eden, 
Nor  wear  the  form  of  man  as  I  have  view'd  it 
In  Adam's,  and  in  Abel's,  and  in  mine. 
Nor  in  my  sister-bride's,  nor  in  my  children's: 
And  yet  they  have  an  aspect,  which,  though  not 
Of  men  nor  angels,  looks  like  something,  which 
If  not  the  last,  rose  higher  than  the  first. 
Haughty,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and  full 
Of  seeming  strength,  but  of  inexplicable 
Shape;  for^I  never  saw  such.     They  bear  not 
The  wing  of  seraph,  nor  the  face  of  man. 
Nor  form  of  mightiest  brute,  nor  aught  that  is 
Now  breathing;  mighty  yet  and  beautiful 
As  the  most  beautiful  and  mighty  which 
Live,  and  yet  so  unlike  them,  that  I  scarce 
Can  call  them  living. 

~  Yet  they  lived. 

Where? 

Where 


On  what  thou  callest  earth 


Liccifer. 

Cain. 

Lucifer. 
Thou  livest. 

Cain.  When? 

Lucifer. 
They  did  inhabit. 

Cain.  Adam  is  the  first. 

Lucifer.  Of  thine,  I  grant  thee — but  too  mean  to  be 
The  last  of  these. 

Cain.  And  what  are  they? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

Thou  Shalt  be. 

Cain.  But  what  were  they? 

Lucifer.  Living,  high, 

Intelligent,  good,  great,  and  glorious  things, 
As  much  superior  unto  all  thy  sire, 
Adam,  could. e'er  have  been  in  Eden,  as 
The  sixty-thousandth  generation  shall  be, 
In  its  dull  damp  degeneracy,  to 
Thee  and  thy  son; — and  how  weak  they  are,  judge 
By  thy  own  flesh. 

Cain.  Ah  me!  and  did  they  perish? 

Lucifer.  Yes,  from  their  earth,  as  thou  wilt  fade  from  thine. 

Cain.  But  was  mine  theirs? 

Lv^fer.  It  was. 

Cain.  But  not  as  now. 

It  is  too  little  and  too  lowly  to 
Sustain  such  creatures. 

Lucxfer.  True,  it  was  more  glorious. 

Cam.  And  wherefore  did  it  fall? 

Lucifer.  Ask  Him  who  fells. 

Cain.  But  how? 

Lucifer.  By  a  most  crushing  and  inexorable 

Destruction  and  disorder  of  the  elements. 


** 


*- 


-$ — — -^ 

263  CAIN.  [ACT  II. 

Which  struck  a  world  to  chaos,  as  a  chaos 
Subsiding  has  struck  out  a  world:  such  things, 
Though  rare  in  time,  are  frequent  in  eternity, — 
Pass  on,  and  gaze  upon  the  past. 

Cain.  ■  'Tis  awful! 

Lucifer.  And  true.  Behold  these  phantoms!  they  were  once 
Material  as  thou  art. 

Cain.  And  must  I  be 

Like  them? 

Lucifer.      Let  Him  who  made  thee  answer  that. 
I  show  thee  what  thy  predecessors  are, 
And  what  they  ivere  thou  f  eelest,  in  degree 
Inferior  as  thy  petty  feelings  and 
Thy  pettier  portion  of  the  immortal  part 
Of  high  intelligence  and  earthly  strength. 
What  ye  in  common  have  with  v/hat  they  had 
Ig  life,  and  what  ye  shall  have — death:  the  rest 
Of  your  poor  attributes  is  such  as  suits 
Reptiles  engender' d  out  of  the  subsiding 
Slime  of  a  mighty  universe,  crush' d  into 
A  scarcely-yet  shaped  planet,  peopled  with 
Things  whose  enjoyment  was  to  be  in  blindness — 
A  Paradise  of  Ignorance,  from  which 
Knowledge  was  barr'd  as  poison.    But  behold 
What  these  superior  beings  are  or  were; 
Or,  if  it  irk  thee,  turn  thee  back  and  till 
The  earth,  thy  task— I'll  waft  thee  there  in  safety. 

Cain.  No:  I'll  stay  here. 

Lucifer.  How  long? 

Cain.  For  ever!    Since 

I  must  one  day  return  here  from  the  earth, 
I  rather  would  remain;  I  am  sick  of  all 
That  dust  has  shown  me — let  me  dwell  in  shadows. 

Lucifer.  It  cannot  be:  thou  now  beh oldest  as 
A  vision  that  which  is  reality. 
To  make  thyself  fit  for  this  dwelling,  thou 
Must  pass  through  what  the  things  thou  seest  have  pass'd — 
The  gates  of  death. 

.  Cain.  By  what  gate  have  we  enter' d 

Even  now? 

Lucifer.      By  mine!    But,  plighted  to  return, 
My  spirit  buoys  thee  up  to  breathe  in  regions 
Where  all  is  breathless  save  thyself.    Gaze  on; 
But  do  not  think  to  dwell  here  till  thine  hour 
Is  come. 

Cam.    And  these,  too;  can  they  ne'er  repass 
To  earth  again? 

Lucifer.  Their  earth  is  gone  for  ever — 

So  changed  by  its  convulsion,  they  would  not 
Be  conscious  to  a  single  present  spot 
Of  Its  new  scarcely  harden M  surface —  twas — 
Oh,  what  a  beautiful  world  it  was  ! 

Cain.  And  Is. 

It  is  not  with  the  earth,  though  I  must  till  it, 
I  feel  at  war,  but  that  I  may  not  profit 
By  what  It  bears  of  beautiful  untoillng. 
Nor  gratify  my  thousand  swelling  thoughts 


♦it 


^K 


SCENE  II.J 


CAIN. 


263 


-t 


With  knowledge,  nor  allay  my  thousand  fears 
Of  death  and  life. 

Lucifer.  What  thy  world  is,  thou  seest. 

But  canst  not  comprehend  the  shadow  of 
That  which  it  was. 

Cain.  And  those  enormous  creatures, 

Phantoms  inferior  in  intelligence 
(At  least  so  seeming)  to  the  things  we  have  pass'd 
Resembling  somewhat  the  wild  habitants 
Of  the  deep  woods  of  earth,  the  hugest  which 
Roar  nightly  in  the  forest,  but  tenfold 
In  magnitude  and  terror;  taller  than 
The  cherub-guarded  walls  of  Eden,  with 
Eyes  flashing  like  the  fiery  swords  which  fence  them. 
And  tusks  projecting  like  the  trees  stripp'd  of 
Their  bark  and  branches — what  were  they? 

Lucifer.  That  which 

The  Mammoth  is  in  thy  world; — but  these  lie 
By  myriads  underneath  its  surface. 

Cain.  But 

None  on  it? 

Lucifer.         No:  for  thy  frail  race  to  war 
With  them  would  render  the  curse  on  it  useless — 
'Twould  be  destroy' d  so  early. 

Cain.  But  why  war  ? 

Lucifer.     You  have  forgotten  the  denunciation 
Which  drove  your  race  from  Eden — war  with  all  things, 
And  death  to  all  things,  and  disease  to  most  things. 
And  pangs,  and  bitterness;  these  were  the  fruits 
Of  the  forbidden  tree. 

Cain.  But  animals — 

Did  they,  too,  eat  of  4t,  that  they  must  die? 

Lucifer.  Your  Maker  told  ye,  they  were  made  for  you, 
As  you  for  Him. — You  would  not  have  their  doom 
Superior  to  your  own?    Had  Adam  not 
Fallen,  all  had  stood. 

Cain.  Alas  I  the  hopeless  wretches! 

They  too  must  share  my  sire's  fate,  like  his  sons; 
Like  them,  too,  without  having  shared  the  apple; 
Like  them,  too,  without  the  so  dear-bought  ktwwledge! 
It  was  a  lying  tree — for  we  know  nothing. 
At  least  it  promised  knowledge  at  the  price 
Of  death — but  knowledge  still:  but  what  knows  man? 

Lucifer.  It  may  be  death  leads  to  the  highest  knowledge; 
And  being  of  all  things  the  sole  thing  certain. 
At  least  leads  to  the  surest  science:  therefore 
The  tree  was  true,  though  deadly, 

Cain.  These  dim  realms! 

I  see  them,  but  I  know  them  not. 

Lucifer.  Because 

Thy  hour  is  yet  afar,  and  matter  cannot 
Comprehend  spirit  wholly — but  'tis  something 
To  know  there  are  such  realms. 

Cai7i.  ^  We  knew  already 

That  there  was  death. 

Lucifer.  But  not  what  was  beyond  it. 

Cain.  Nor  know  1  now. 


r 


-^- 


CAIN. 


[act  ii. 


Ludfer.  Thou  knowest  that  there  is 

A  state,  and  many  states  beyond  thine  own — 
And  this  thou  knewest  not  this  mom. 

Cain.  But  all 

Seems  dim  and  shadowy. 

Lwdj'cr.  Be  content;  it  will 

Seem  clearer  to  thine  immortality. 

Cain.  And  yon  immeasurable  liquid  space 
Of  glorious  azure  which  floats  on  beyond  us, 
Which  looks  like  water,  and  which  I  should  deem 
The  river  which  flows  out  of  Paradise 
Past  my  own  dwellin"^,  but  that  it  is  banklesa 
And  boundless,  and  of  an  ethereal  hue — 
What  is  it? 

Liccifer.      There  is  still  some  such  on  earth, 
Although  inferior,  and  thy  childi'en  shall 
Dwell  near  it — 'tis  the  phantasm  of  an  ocean. 

Cain.  'Tis  like  another  world;  a  liquid  sun — 
And  those  inordinate  creatures  sporting  o'er 
Its  shining  surface? 

Liccifer.  Are  its  inhabitants; 

The  past  leviathans. 

Cain.  And  yon  immense 

Serpent,  which  rears  its  dripping  mane  and  vasty 
Head  ten  times  higher  than  the  haughtiest  cedar 
Forth  from  the  abyss,  looking  as  he  could  coil 
Himself  around  the  orbs  we  lately  look'd  on — 
Is  he  not  of  the  kind  which  bask'd  beneath 
The  tree  in  Eden? 

Lucifer.  Eve,  thy  mother,  best 

Can  tell  what  shape  of  serpent  tempted  her. 

Cain.  This  seems  too  terrible,    ijo  doubt  the  other 
Had  more  of  beauty. 

Lucifer.  Hast  thou  ne'er  beheld  him? 

Cain.  Many  of  the  same  kind  (at  least  so  call'd), 
But  never  that  precisely  which  persuaded 
The  fatal  fruit,  nor  even  of  the  same  aspect. 

Liicifer.  Your  father  saw  him  not? 

Cain.  No;  'twas  my  mother 

Who  tempted  him — she  tempted  by  the  serpent. 

Lucifer.  Goodmanl  whene'erthy  wife,  or  thy  sons' wives, 
Tempt  thee  or  them  to  aught  that 's  new  or  strange, 
Be  sure  thou  seest  first  who  hath  tempted  them. 

Cain.  Thy  precept  comes  too  late:  there  is  no  more 
For  serpents  to  tempt  woman  to. 

Lucifer.  But  there 

Are  some  things  still  which  woman  may  tempt  man  to, 
And  man  tempt  woman: — let  thy  sons  look  to  itl 
My  counsel  is  a  kind  one:  for  'tis  even 
Given  chiefly  at  my  own  expense:  'tis  true, 
'Twill  not  be  foUow'd,  so  there  's  little  lost. 

Cai7i.  I  understand  not  this. 

Lucifer.  The  happier  thoul — 

Thy  world  and  thou  are  still  too  youngl    Thou  thinkest 
Thyself  most  wicked  and  unhappy:  Is  It 
Not  80? 


^K 


-I- 


■ih- 


SCENB  II.] 


CAIN. 


Cain.  For  crime,  I  know  not;  but  for  pain, 
I  have  felt  much. 

LvA^ifer.  First-born  of  the  first  man! 

Thy  present  state  of  sin — and  thou  art  evil, 
Of  sorrow — and  thou  sufferest,  are  both  Eden 
In  all  its  innocence  compared  to  what 
Thou  shortly  may'st  be;  and  that  state  again 
In  its  redoubled  wretchedness,  a  Paradise 
To  what  thy  sons'  sons'  sons,  accumulating 
In  generations  like  to  dust  (which  they 
In  fact  but  add  to),  shall  endure  and  do. — 
Now  let  us  back  to  earth! 

Cain.  And  wherefore  didst  thou 

Lead  me  here  only  to  inform  me  this? 

Lucifer.  Was  not  thy  quest  for  knowledge? 

Cain.  Yes;  as  being 

The  road  to  happiness. 

Lucifer.  If  truth  be  so, 

Thou  hast  it. 

Cain.  Then  my  father's  God  did  well 

When  he  prohibited  the  fatal  tree. 

LvAiifer.  But  had  done  better  in  not  planting  it. 
But  ignorance  of  evil  doth  not  save 
From  evil;  it  must  still  roll  on  the  same,  ' 

A  part  of  all  things. 

Cain.  Not  of  all  things.    No: 

I'll  not  believe  it — for  I  thirst  for  good. 

Lucifer.  And  who  and  what  doth  not?     Who  covets  evil 
For  its  own  bitter  sake? — None — nothing!  'tis 
The  leaven  of  all  life,  and  lifelessness. 

Cain.  Within  those  glorious  orbs  which  we  behold, 
Distant,  and  dazzling,  and  innumerable, 
Ere  we  came  down  into  this  phantom  realm, 
111  cannot  come:  they  are  too  beautiful. 

Lucifer.  Thou  hast  seen  them  from  afar — 

Cain.  And  what  of  that? 

Distance  can  but  diminish  glory — they, 
When  nearer,  must  be  more  ineffable. 

Ludfer.  Approach  the  things  of  earth  most  beautiful, 
And  judge  their  beauty  near. 

Cain.  I  have  done  this — 

The  loveliest  thing  I  know  is  loveliest  nearest. 

Lucifer.  Then  there  must  be  delusion. — What  is  that, 
Which  being  nearest  to  thine  eyes  is  still 
More  beautiful  than  beauteous  things  remote? 

Cain.  My  sister  Adah- — All  the  stars  of  heaven, 
The  deep  blue  noon  of  night,  lit  by  an  orb 
Which  looks  a  spirit,  or  a  spirit's  world — 
The  hues  of  twilight — the  sun's  gorgeous  coming — 
His  setting  indescribable,  which  fills 
My  eyes  with  pleasant  tears  as  I  behold 
Him  sink,  and  feel  my  heart  float  softly  with  him 
Along  that  western  paradise  of  clouds — 
The  forest  shade— the  green  bough— the  bird's  voice — 
The  vesper  bird's  which  seems  to  sing  of  love, 
And  mingles  with  the  song  of  cherubim, 

L 


■*ik 


^K 


^h 


266 


CAIN. 


r      ^ 

[act  II. 


As  the  day  closes  over  Eden's  walls; — 
All  these  are  nothing,  to  my  eyes  and  heart, 
Like  Adah's  face:  I  turn  from  earth  and  heaven 
To  gaze  on  it. 

Lucifer.  'Tis  fair  as  frail  mortality, 

In  the  first  dawn  and  bloom  of  young  creation, 
And  earliest  embraces  of  earth's  parents. 
Can  make  its  offspring;  still  it  is  delusion. 

Cain.  You  think  so,  being  not  her  brother. 

Lucifer.  Mortall 

My  brotherhood  's  with  those  who  have  no  children. 

Cain.  Then  thou  canst  have  no  fellowship  with  us. 

Lucifer.  It  may  be  that  thine  own  shall  be  for  me. 
But  if  thou  dost  possess  a  beautiful 
Being  beyond  «,11  beauty  in  thine  eyes. 
Why  art  thou  wretched? 

Cain.  Why  do  I  exist? 

Why  art  tJum  wretched?  why  are  all  things  so?  ^ 

Even  He  who  made  us  must  be,  as  the  maker 
Of  things  unhappy!    To  produce  destruction 
Can  surely  never  be  the  task  of  joy; 
And  yet  my  sire  says  He  's  omnipotent: 
Then  why  is  evU — ^He  being  good?    I  ask'd 
This  question  of  my  father;  and  he  said, 
Because  this  evil  only  was  the  path 
To  good.    Strange  good,  that  must  arise  from  out 
Its  deadly  opposite.    I  lately  saw 
A  lamb  stung  by  a  reptile:  the  poor  suckling 
Lay  foaming  on  the  earth,  beneath  the  vain 
And  piteous  bleating  of  its  restless  dam; 
My  father  pluck'd  some  herbs,  and  laid  them  to 
The  wound;  and  by  degrees  the  helpless  wretch 
Resumed  its  careless  life,  and  rose  to  drain 
The  mother's  milk,  who  o'er  it  tremulous 
Stood  licking  its  reviving  limbs  with  joy. 
Behold,  my  son!  said  Adam,  how  from  evil 
Springs  good! 

Lucifer.  What  didst  thou  answer? 

Cain.  Nothing;  for 

He  is  my  father:  but  I  thought,  that  'twere 
A  better  portion  for  the  animal 
Never  to  have  been  ahmg  at  all,  than  to 
Purchase  renewal  of  its  httle  life 
With  agonies  unutterable,  though 
Dispelled  by  antidotes. 

Ltu'iftr.  But  as  thou  saidst 

Of  all  beloved  things  thou  lovest  her 
Who  shared  thy  mother's  milk,  and  giveth  hers 
L^nto  thy  children 

Cain.  Most  assuredly: 

What  should  I  be  without  her? 

Lucifer.  What  am  I? 

Cain.  Dost  thou  love  nothing? 

Lucifer.  What  does  thy  God  love? 

Cain.  All  things,  my  father  says;  but  I  confess 
I  see  it  not  in  their  allotment  here. 

Lucifer.  And,  tlicrefore,  thou  canst  not  see  If  /  love 


*ii- 


■it 


-^i- 


BCENB  n.]  CAIN.  267 

Or  no,  except  some  vast  and  general  purpose, 
To  which  particular  things  must  melt,  like  snows. 

Cain.  Snows!  what  are  they? 

Liccifer.  Be  happier  in  not  knowing 

"What  thy  remoter  offspring  must  encounter; 
But  bask  beneath  the  clime  which  knows  no  winter! 

Cain.  But  dost  thou  not  love  something  like  thyself? 

Ltccifer.  And  dost  thou  love  thyself.^ 

Cain.  Yes,  but  love  mere 

What  makes  my  feelings  more  endurable, 
And  is  more  than  myself,  because  I  love  it. 

Lxccifer.  Thou  lovest  it,  because  'tis  beautiful, 
As  was  the  apple  in  thy  mother's  eye; 
And  when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  thy  love 
Will  cease,  like  any  other  appetite. 

Cain.  Cease  to  be  beautiful!  how  can  that  be? 

Lticifer.  With  time. 

Cain.  But  time  has  pass'd,  and  hitherto 

Even  Adam  and  my  mother  both  are  fair: 
Not  fair  like  Adah  and  the  seraphim — 
But  very  fair. 

Liccifer.  All  that  must  pass  away 

In  them  and  her. 

Cain.  I'm  sorry  for  it,  but 

Cannot  conceive  my  love  for  her  the  less. 
And  when  her  beauty  disappears,  methinks 
He  who  creates  all  beauty  will  lose  more 
Than  me  in  seeing  perish  such  a  work. 

Liccifer.  I  pity  thee  who  lovest  what  must  perish. 

Cain.  And  I  thee,  who  lov'st  nothing. 

Liccifer.  And  thy  brother-r- 

Sits  he  not  near  thy  heart? 

Cain.  Why  should  he  not? 

Liccifer.  Thy  father  loves  him  well— so  does  thy  God. 

Cain.  And  so  do  I. 

Liccifer.  'Tis  well  and  meekly  done. 

Cain.  Meekly! 

Liccifer.  He  is  the  second  born  of  flesh, 

And  is  his  mother's  favorite. 

Cain.  Let  him  keep 

Her  favor,  since  the  serpent  was  the  first 
To  win  it. 
•    Liccifer.  And  his  father's? 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  me?  should  I  not  love  that  which  all  love? 

Lucifer.  And  the  Jehovah — the  indulgent  Lord, 
And  bounteous  planter  of  barr'd  Paradise — 
He,  too,  looks  smilingly  on  Abel. 

Cain.  I 

Ne'er  saw  Him,  and  I  know  not  if  He  smiles. 

Lucifer.  But  you  have  seen  His  angels? 

Cain.  Rarely. 

Liccifer.  But 

Sufficiently  to  see  they  love  your  brother: 
His  sacrifices  are  acceptable. 

Cain.  So  be  they!  wherefore  speak  to  me  of  this? 

Lucifer.  Because  thou  hast  thought  of  this  ere  now. 


*ih 


r 


+ 


268 


CAIN. 


[act  II. 


Cain.  And  if 

I  Tiave  thought,  why  recall  a  thought  that (Tie  pauses,  <u 

agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here  we  are  in  thy  world:  speak  not  of  mine. 
Thou  hast  shown  me  wonders;  thou  hast  shown  me  those 
Mighty  pre- Adamites  who  walk'd  the  earth 
Of  which  ours  is  the  wreck;  thou  hast  pointed  out 
Myriads  of  starry  worlds,  of  which  our  own 
Is  the  dim  and  remote  companion,  in 
Infinity  of  life:  thou  hast  shown  me  shadows 
Of  that  existence  with  the  dreaded  name 
Which  my  sire  brought  us — Death ;  thou  hast  shown  me  much, 
But  not  all;  show  me  where  Jehovah  dwells, 
In  His  especial  Paradise — or  thine: 
Where  is  it? 

Lucifer.        Here,  and  o'er  all  space. 

Cain.  But  ye 

Have  some  allotted  dwelling— as  all  things; 
Clay  has  its  earth,  and  other  worlds  their  tenants; 
All  temporary  breathing  creatures  their 
Peculiar  element;  and  things  which  have 
Long  ceased  to  breathe  our  breath,  have  theirs,  thou  say'st; 
And  the  Jehovah  and  thyself  have  thine — 
Ye  do  not  dwell  together? 

Lucifer.  No,  we  reign 

Together;  but  our  dwellings  are  asunder. 

Cain.  Would  there  were  only  one  of  yel    Perchance 
An  unity  of  purpose  might  make  union 
In  elements  which  seem  now  jarr'd  in  storms. 
How  came  ye,  being  spirits,  wise  and  infinite, 
To  separate?    Are  ye  not  as  brethren  in 
Your  essence,  and  your  nature,  and  your  glory? 

Lucifer.  Art  thou  not  Abel's  brother? 

Cain.  We  are  brethren, 

And  so  we  shall  remain;  but  were  it  not  so, 
Is  spirit  like  to  flesh?  can  it  fall  out? 
Infinity  with  Immortality? 
Jarring  and  turning  space  to  misery — 
For  what? 

Lucifer.  To  reign. 

Cain.  Did  ye  not  tell  me  that 

Ye  are  both  eternal? 

Lucifer.  Yea! 

Cain.  And  what  I  have  seen, 

Yon  blue  immensity,  is  boundless? 

Ijucifer.  Ay. 

Cain.  And  cannot  ye  both  reign  then? — is  there  not 
Enough? — Why  should  ye  differ? 

Lucifer.  We  "both  reigu. 

Cain.  But  one  of  you  makes  evil. 

Lucifer.  Which? 

Cain.  Thou!  for 

If  thou  canst  do  man  good,  why  dost  thou  not? 

Lucifer.  And  why  not  He  who  made?    /made  ye  not: 
Ye  are  7/w  creatures,  and  not  mine. 
Cain.  Then  leave  us 


*iir 


^K 


*ii 


A- 


80SNE  II.] 


CAIN. 


Mis  creatures,  as  thou  say'st  we  are,  or  show  me 
Thy  dwelling,  or  His  dwelling. 

Lucifer.  I  could  show  thee 

Both;  but  the  time  will  come  thou  shalt  see  one 
Of  them  for  evermore. 

Cain.  And  why  not  now? 

Liccifer.  Thy  human  mind  hath  scarcely  grasp  to  gather 
The  little  I  have  shown  theg  into  calm 
And  clear  thought;  and  thou  wouldst  go  on  aspiring 
To  the  great  double  Mysteries?  the  two  Principles/ 
And  gaze  upon  them  on  their  secret  thrones! 
Dust!  limit  thy  ambition;  for  to  see 
Either  of  these,  would  be  for  thee  to  perish! 

Cain.  And  let  me  perish  so  I  see  them! 

Lucifer.  There 

The  son  of  her  who  snatch'd  the  apple  spake! 
But  thou  wouldst  only  perish,  and  not  see  them; 
That  sight  is  for  the  other  state. 

Cain.  Of  death? 

Lucifer.  That  is  the  prelude. 

Cain.  Then  I  dread  it  less, 

Now  that  I  know  it  leads  to  something  definite. 

Lucifer.  And  now  I  will  convey  thee  to  thy  world, 
Where  thou  shalt  multiply  the  race  of  Adam, 
Eat,  drink,  toil,  tremble,  laugh,  weep,  sleep,  and  die. 

Cain.  And  to  what  end  have  I  beheld  these  things 
Which  thou  hast  shown  me? 

Lucifer.  Didst  thou  not  require 

Knowledge?    And  have  I  not,  in  what  I  show'd. 
Taught  thee  to  know  thyself? 

Cain.  Alas!  I  seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer.  And  this  should  be  the  human  sum 
Of  knowledge,  to  know  mortal  nature's  nothingness: 
Bequeath  that  science  to  thy  children,  and 
'Twill  spare  them  many  tortures. 

Cain.  Haughty  spirit! 

Thou  speak'st  it  proudly;  but  thyself,  though  proud, 
Hast  a  superior. 

Lucifer.  No!  by  heaven,  which  He 

Holds,  and  the  abyss,  and  the  immensity 
Of  worlds  and  life,  which  I  hold  with  Ilim — No!] 
I  have  a  victor — true;  but  no  superior. 
Homage  He  has  from  all — but  none  from  me: 
I  battle  it  against  Him,  as  I  battled 
In  highest  heaven.     Through  all  eternity. 
And  the  unfathomable  gulfs  of  Hades, 
And  the  interminable  realms  of  space, 
And  the  infinity  of  endless  ages. 
All,  all,  will  I  dispute!    And  world  by  world. 
And  star  by  star,  and  universe  by  universe. 
Shall  tremble  in  the  balance,  till  the  great 
Conflict  shall  cease,  if  ever  it  shall  cease. 
Which  it  ne'er  shall,  till  He  or  1  be  quench'd! 
And  what  can  quench  our  immortality. 
Or  mutual  and  irrevocable  hate? 
He  as  a  conqueror  will  call  the  conquer' d 


■I3K 


270 


CAIN. 


(ACT  III. 


Evil ;  but  what  will  be  the  good  He  g:lve8? 
Were  I  the  victor,  i/is-  works  would  "be  deem'd 
The  only  evil  ones.    And  you,  ye  new 
And  scarce-bom  mortals,  what  have  been  His  gifts 
To  you  already,  in  your  little  world? 

Cain.  But  few!  and  some  of  those  but  bitter. 

Lucifer.  Back 

With  me,  then,  to  thine  earth,  and  try  the  rest 
Of  His  celestial  boons  to  you  and  yours. 
Evil  and  good  are  things  in  their  own  essence, 
And  not  made  good  or  evil  by  the  giver; 
But  if  He  gives  you  good— so  call  Him;  if 
Evil  springs  from  Him,  do  not  name  it  mine^ 
Till  ye  know  better  its  true  fount;  and  judge 
Not  by  words,  though  of  spirits,  but  the  fruits 
Of  your  existence,  such  as  it  must  be. 
One  good  gift  has  the  fatal  apple  given — 
Your  reason : — let  it  not  be  over-sway'd 
By  tyrannous  threats  to  force  you  into  faith 
'Gainst  all  external  sense  and  inward  feeling: 
Think  and  endure — and  form  an  inner  world 
In  your  own  bosom— where  the  outward  fails; 
So  shall  you  nearer  be  the  spiritual 
Nature,  and  war  triumphant  with  your  own.  [  They  disappear. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Earth  near  Edeii,  o-s  in  Act  I. 
Enter  Cain  and  Adah. 

Adah.  Hush!  tread  softly,  Cain. 

Cain.  I  will;  but  wherefore? 

Adah.  Our  little  Enoch  sleeps  upon  yon  bed 
Of  leaves,  beneath  the  cypress. 

Cain.  Cypress!  'tis 

A  gloomy  tree,  which  looks  as  if  it  mouirn'd 
O'er  what  it  shadows;  wherefore  didst  thou  choose  it 
For  our  child's  canopy? 

Adah.  Because  its  branches 

Shut  out  the  sun  like  night,  and  therefore  seem'd 
Fitting  to  shadow  slumber. 

Cain.  Ay,  the  last— 

And  longest;  but  no  matter— lead  me  to  him. 

[They  go  up  to  the  child. 
How  lovely  he  appears  1  his  little  cheeks. 
In  their  pure  incarnation,  vying  with 
The  rose  leaves  strewn  beneath  them. 

Adah.  '  And  his  lips,  too. 

How  beautifully  parted!    No;  you  shall  not 
Kiss  him,  at  least  not  now:  he  will  awake  soon — 
His  hour  of  mid-day  rest  is  nearly  over; 
But  It  were  pity  to  disturb  him  till 
'Tis  closed. 

Cain.  You  have  said  well;  I  will  contain 

My  heart  till  then.    He  smiles,  and  sleeps! — Sleep  on 


4H- 


■It 


SCENE  I.J 


CAIN. 


271 


And  smile,  thou  little,  young  InheBitor 
Of  a  world  scarce  less  young:  sleep  on,  and  smile! 
Thine  are  the  hours  and  days  when  both  are  cheering 
And  innocent!  thou  hast  not  pluck'd  the  fruit — 
Thou  know'st  not  thou  art  naked!    Must  the  time 
Come  thou  shalt  be  amerced  for  sins  unknown, 
Which  were  not  mine  nor  thine?    But  now  sleep  onl 
His  cheeks  are  reddening  into  deeper  smiles, 
And  shining  lids  are  trembling  o'er  his  long 
Lashes,  dark  as  the  c>3)ress  which  waves  o'er  them; 
Half  open,  from  beneath  them  the  clear  blue 
Laughs  out,  although  in  slumber.    He  must  dream — 
Of  what?    Of  Paradise!— Ay!  dream  of  it, 
My  disinherited  boy!    'Tis  but  a  dream; 
For  never  more  thyself,  thy  sons,  nor  fathers, 
Shall  walk  in  that  forbidden  place  of  joy! 

Adah.  Dear  Cain!  Nay,  do  not  whisper  o'er  our  son 
Such  melancholy  yearnings  o'er  the  past: 
Why  wilt  thou  always  mourn  for  Paradise? 
Can  we  not  make  another? 

Cain.  Where? 

Adah.  Here,  or 

Where'er  thou  wilt:  where'er  thou  art,  I  feel  not 
The  want  of  this  so  much  regretted  Eden, 
Have  I  not  thee,  our  boy,  our  sire,  and  brother. 
And  Zillah — our  sweet  sister,  and  our  Eve, 
To  whom  we  owe  so  much  besides  our  birth? 

Cain.  Yes — death,  too,  is  amongst  the  debts  we  owe  her. 

Adah.  Cain!  that  proud  spirit,  who  withdrew  thee  hence, 
Hath  sadden'd  thine  still  deeper.     I  had  hoped 
The  promised  wonders  which  thou  hast  beheld, 
Visions,  thou  say'st,  of  past  and  present  worlds, 
Would  have  composed  thy  mind  into  the  calm 
Of  a  contented  knowledge;  but  I  see 
Thy  guide  hath  done  thee  evil:  still  I  thank  him, 
And  can  forgive  him  all,  that  he  so  soon 
Hath  given  thee  back  to  us. 

Cain.  So  soon? 

Adah.  'Tis  scarcely 

Two  hours  since  ye  departed:  two  long  hours 
To  me,  but  only  hours  upon  the  sun. 

Cain.  And  yet  I  have  approach'd  that  sun,  and  seen 
Worlds  which  he  once  shone  on,  and  never  more 
Shall  light;  and  worlds  he  never  lit:  methought 
Years  had  roll'd  o'er  my  absence. 

Adah.  Hardly  hours. 

Cain.  The  mind  then  hath  capacity  of  time, 
And  measures  it  by  that  which  it  beholds. 
Pleasing  or  painful;  little  or  almighty, 
I  had  beheld  the  immemorial  works 
Of  endless  beings;  skirr'd  extinguish'd  worlds; 
And,  gazing  on  eternity,  methought 
I  had  borrow'd  more  by  a  few  drops  of  ages 
From  its  immensity;  but  now  I  feel 
My  littleness  again.    Well  said  the  spirit, 
That  I  was  nothingi 


Or 


it 


-A 


-a* 


4 


273  CAIN.  [ACT  III. 

Adah.  Wherefore  said  he  so? 

Jehovah  said  not  that.  ' 

Cain.  No:  He  contents  Him 

With  making  us  the  nothing  which  we  are; 
And  after  flattering  dust  with  glimpses  of 
Eden  and  Immortality,  resolves 
It  back  to  dust  again — for  what? 

Adah.  Thou  know'st — 

Even  for  our  parents*  error. 

Cain.  What  is  that 

To  us?  they  sinn*d,  then  let  them  die! 

Adah.  Thou  hast  not  spoken  well,  nor  is  that  thought 
Thy  own,  but  of  the  spirit  who  was  with  thee. 
Would  /could  die  for  them,  so  they  might  live! 

Cai7i.  Why,  so  say  I — provided  that  one  victim 
Might  satiate  the  insatiable  of  life, 
And  that  our  little  rosy  sleeper  there 
Might  never  taste  of  death  nor  human  sorrow. 
Nor  hand  it  down  to  those  who  spring  from  him. 

Adah.  How  know  we  that  some  such  atonem«nt  one  day 
May  not  ledeem  our  race? 

Cain.  By  sacrificing 

The  harmless  for  the  guilty  f  what  atonement 
Were  there?  Why,  we  are  innocent:  what  have  we 
Done,  that  we  must  be  victims  for  a  deed 
Before  our  birth,  or  need  have  victims  to 
Atone  for  this  mysterious,  nameless  sin — 
K  it  be  such  a  sin  to  seek  for  knowledge? 

Adah.  Alas!  thou  sinnest  now,  my  Cain:  thy  words 
Sound  impious  in  mine  ears. 

Cain.  Then  leave  me! 

Adah.  Never, 

Though  thy  God  left  thee. 

Cain.  Say,  what  have  we  here? 

Adah.  Two  altars,  which  our  brother  Abel  made 
Dming  thine  absence,  whereupon  to  offer 
A  sacrifice  to  God  on  thy  return. 

Gain.  And  how  knew  lie  that  /would  be  so  ready 
With  the  burnt-offerings,  which  he  daily  brings 
With  a  meek  brow,  whose  base  humility 
Shows  more  of  fear  than  worship,  as  a  bribe 
To  the  Creator? 

Adah.  Surely,  *tis  well  done. 

Cain.  One  altar  may  suffice;  /  have  no  offering. 

Adah.  The  fruits  of  the  earth,  the  early,  beautiful 
Blossom  and  bud,  and  bloom  of  flowers  and  fruits. 
These  are  a  goodly  offering  to  the  Lord, 
Given  with  a  gentle  and  a  contrite  spirit. 

Cain.  I  have  toil'd,  and  till'd,  and  sweaten  in  the  sun 
According  to  the  curse;— must  I  do  more? 
For  what  should  I  be  gentle?  for  a  war 
With  all  the  elements  ere  they  will  yield 
The  bread  we  eat?    For  what  must  I  be  grateful? 
For  being  dust,  and  grovelling  in  the  dust, 
Till  I  return  to  dust?    If  1  am  nothing— 
For  nothing  shall  I  be  a  hypocrite, 
And  seem  well-pleased  with  pain?    For  what  should  I 


^H- 


-^ir 


«• 


BOBNB  I.] 


CAIN. 


273 


Hh 


Be  contrite?  for  my  father's  Bin,  already 

Expiate  with  what  we  all  have  undergone, 

And  to  be  more  than  expiated  by 

The  ages  prophesied,  upon  our  seed. 

Little  deems  our  young  blooming  sleeper,  there, 

The  germs  of  an  eternal  misery 

To  myriads  is  within  him!  better  'twere 

I  snatch'd  him  in  his  sleep,  and  dash'd  him  'gainst 

The  rocks,  than  let  him  live  to 

Adah.  Oh,  my  God! 

Touch  not  the  child— my  child!  thy  child!    O  Cain! 

Cain.  Fear  not!  for  all  the  stars,  and  all  the  power 
Which  sways  them,  I  would  not  accost  yon  infant 
With  ruder  greeting  than  a  father's  kiss. 

Adah.  Then,  why  so  awful  in  thy  speech? 

Cain.  I  said, 

'Twere  better  that  he  ceased  to  live,  than  give 
Life  to  so  much  of  sorrow  as  he  must 
Endure,  and,  harder  still,  bequeath;  but  since 
That  saying  jars  you,  let  us  only  say — 
'Twere  better  that  he  never  had  been  bom. 

Adah.  Oh,  do  not  say  so!    Where  were  then  the  joys, 
The  mother's  joys  of  watching,  nourishing, 
And  loving  him?    Soft!  he  awakes.     Sweet  Enoch! 

\She  goes  to  the  child. 
O  Cain!  look  on  him;  see  how  full  of  life. 
Of  strength,  of  bloom,  of  beauty,  and  of  joy. 
How  like  to  me— how  like  to  thee,  when  gentle, 
For  then  we  are  all  alike;  is  't  not  so,  Cain? 
Mother,  and  sire,  and  son,  our  features  are 
Reflected  in  each  other;  as  they  are 
In  the  clear  waters,  when  tliey  are  gentle,  and 
When  thou  art  gentle.    Love  us,  then,  my  Cain! 
And  love  thyself  for  our  sakes,  for  we  love  thee. 
Look!  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out  his  arms, 
And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine, 
To  hail  his  father;  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  wing'd  with  joy.     Talk  not  of  paini 
The  childless  cherubs  well  might  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent!    Bless  him,  Cain! 
As  yet  he  hath  no  words  to  thank  thee,  but 
His  heart  will,  and  thine  own  too. 

Cain.  Bless  thee,  boy! 

If  that  a  mortal  blessing  may  avail  thee. 
To  save  thee  from  the  serpent's  curse! 

Adah.  It  shall. 

Surely  a  father's  blessing  may  avert 
A  reptile's  subtlety. 

Cain.  Of  that  I  doubt; 

But  bless  him  ne'er  the  less. 

Adah.  Our  brother  comes. 

Cain.  Thy  brother  Abel. 

Enter  Abel. 
Abel.  Welcome,  Cain!    My  brother, 

The  peace  of  God  be  on  theel 

Cain.  Abel,  hail! 

L» 


»^ 


-i 


41-^ 


974 


CAIN. 


[act  ni. 


Abel.  Our  sister  tells  me  thou  hast  been  wandering, 
In  high  communion  with  a  spirit,  far 
Beyond  our  wonted  range.     Was  he  of  those 
We  have  seen  and  spoken  with,  like  to  our  father? 

Cain.  No. 

Abel.  Why  then  commune  with  him?  he  may  be 

A  foe  to  the  Most  High. 

Cain.  And  friend  to  man. 

Has  the  Most  High  been  so — if  so  you  term  Him? 

Abel.     Term  Him  !  your  words  are  strange  to-day,  my 
brother. 
My  sister  Adah,  leave  us  for  awhile — 
We  mean  to  sacrifice. 

Adah.  ,  Farewell,  my  Cain; 

But  first  embrace  thy  son.    May  his  soft  spirit, 
And  Abel's  pious  ministry,  recall  thee 
To  peace  and  holiness!  \^Exit  Adah,  with  Tier  child. 

Abel.  Where  hast  thou  been? 

Cain.  I  know  not. 

Abel.  Nor  what  thou  hast  seen? 

Cain.  The  dead. 

The  immortal,  the  unbounded,  the  omnipotent. 
The  overpowering  mysteries  of  space — 
The  innumerable  worlds  that  were  and  are — 
A  whirlwind  of  such  o'erwhelming  things, 
Suns,  moons,  and  earths,  upon  their  loud-voiced  spheres 
Singing  in  thunder  round  me,  as  have  made  me 
Unfit  for  mortal  converse:  leave  me,  Abel. 

Abel.  Thine  eyes  are  flashing  with  unnatural  light. 
Thy  cheek  is  flushed  with  an  unnatural  hue, 
Thy  words  are  fraught  with  an  unnatural  sound — 
What  may  this  mean? 

Cain.  It  means 1  pray  thee,  leave  me. 

Abel.  Not  till  we  have  pray'd  and  sacrificed  together. 

Cain.  Abel,  I  pray  thee,  sacrifice  alone — 
Jehovah  loves  thee  well. 

Abel.  Both  well,  I  hope. 

Cain.  But  thee  the  better:  I  care  not  for  that; 
Thou  art  fitter  for  His  worship  than  I  am; 
Revere  Him,  then— but  let  it  be  alone —  . 
At  least,  without  me. 

Abel.  Brother,  I  should  ill 

Deserve  the  name  of  our  great  father's  son, 
If,  as  my  elder,  I  revered  thee  not. 
And  in  the  worship  of  our  God  call'd  not 
On  thee  to  join  me^  and  precede  me  in 
Our  priesthood — 'tis  thy  place. 

Cain.  But  I  have  ne'er 

Asserted  it. 

Abel.  The  more  my  grief;  I  pray  thee 

To  do  so  now:  thy  soul  seeims  laboring  in 
Some  strong  delusion;  it  will  calm  thee. 

Cain.  No; 

Nothing  can  calm  me  more.     Calm!  say  I?    Never 
Knew  1  what  calm  was  in  the  soul,  although 
I  have  seen  the  elements  still'd.    My  Abel",  leave  me! 
Or  let  mo  leave  thee  to  thy  pious  purpose. 


♦it 


^K 


■ii- 


-IK 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


275 


Abel.  Neither:  we  must  perform  our  task  together. 
Spurn  me  not. 

Oaiti.  If  it  must  be  so well,  then, 

What  shall  I  do? 

Abel.  Choose  one  of  those  two  altars. 

Cain.  Choose  for  me:  they  to  me  are  so  much  turf 
And  stone. 

Abel.  Choose  thou! 

Cain.  I  have  chosen. 

Abel.  "Tis  the  highest, 

And  suits  thee,  as  the  elder.     Now  prepare 
Thine  offerings. 

Cain.  Where  are  thine? 

Abel.  Behold  them  here — 

The  firstlings  of  the  flock,  and  fat  thereof — 
A  shepherd's  humble  offering. 

Cain.  I  have  no  flocks; 

I  am  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  and  must 

Yield  what  it  yieldeth  to  my  toil — its  fruits:  [He  gathers  fruits. 
Behold  them  in  their  vaiious  bloom  and  ripeness. 

[They  dress  their  altars,  and  kindk  afiarne  upon  them. 

Abel.  My  b  -other,  as  the  elder,  offer  first 
Thy  prayer  and  thanksgiving  with  sacrifice. 

Cain,  No — I  am  new  to  this;  lead  thou  the  way, 
And  I  will  follow— as  I  may. 

Abel  {kneeling).  O  God! 

Who  made  us,  and  who  breathed  the  breath  of  life 
Within  our  nostrils,  who  hath  blessed  us. 
And  spared,  despite  our  father's  sin,  to  make 
His  children  all  lost,  as  they  might  have  been. 
Had  not  Thy  justice  been  so  temper'd  with 
The  mercy  which  is  Thy  delight,  as  to 
Accord  a  pardon  like  a  Paradise, 

Compared  with  our  great  crimes: — Sole  Lord  of  light  1 
Of  good,  and  glory,  and  eternity; 
Without  whom  all  were  evil,  and  with  whom 
Nothing  can  err,  except  to  some  good  end 
Of  Thine  omnipotent  benevolence — 
Inscrutable,  but  still  to  be  fulfill'd— 
Accept  from  out  thy  humble  first  of  shepherd's 
First  of  the  first-bom  flocks — an  offering, 
In  itself  nothing — as  what  offering  can  be 
Aught  unto  Thee?— but  yet  accept  it  for 
The  thanksgiving  of  him  who  spreads  it  in 
The  face  of  "Thy  high  heaven,  bowing  his  own 
Even  to  tht  dust,  of  which  he  is,  in  honor 
Of  TheC;  and  of  Thy  name,  for  evermore! 

Cain  {standing  erect  during  this  speech).  Spirit  1  whate'er 
or  whosoe'er  Thou  art. 
Omnipotent,  it  may  be — and,  if  good. 
Shown  in  the  exemption  of  Thy  deeds  from  evil; 
Jehovah  upon  earth!  and  God  in  heaven! 
And  it  may  be  with  other  names,  because 
Thine  attributes  seem  many,  as  Thy  works: — 
If  Thou  must  be  propitiated  with  prayers. 
Take  them!    If  Thou  must  be  induced  with  altars, 
And  floften'd  with  a  sacrifice,  receive  them! 


Hir 


4 


27C  CAIN.  [act  III. 

Two  beings  here  erect  them  unto  Thee. 

If  Thou  lov'st  blood,  the  shepherd's  shrine  which  Bmokes 

On  my  right  hand,  hath  shed  it  for  Thy  service 

In  the  first  of  his  flock,  whose  limbs  now  reek 

In  sanguinary  incense  to  Thy  skies; 

Or  if  the  sweet  and  blooming  fruits  of  earth, 

And  milder  seasons,  which  the  unstain'd  turf 

I  spread  them  on  now  offers  in  the  face 

Of  the  broad  sun  which  ripen'd  them,  may  seem 

Good  to  Thee,  inasmuch  as  they  have  not 

Suffer'd  in  limb  or  life,  and  rather  form 

A  sample  of  Thy  works  than  supplication 

To  look  on  ours!    K  a  shrine  without  victim. 

And  altar  without  gore,  may  win  Thy  favor, 

Look  on  it!    And  for  him  who  dresseth  it, 

He  is — such  as  Thou  mad'st  him;  and  seeks  nothing 

Which  must  be  won  by  kneeling:  if  he  's  evil. 

Strike  himi  Thou  art  omnipotent,  and  may'st — 

For  what  can  he  oppose?    If  he  be  good, 

Strike  him,  or  spare  him,  as  Thou  wilt!  since  all 

Rests  upon  Thee;  and  good  and  evil  seem 

To  have  no  power  themselves,  save  in  Thy  will; 

And  whether  that  be  good  or  ill  I  know  not, 

Not  being  omnipotent,  nor  fit  to  judge 

Omnipotence,  but  merely  to  endure 

Its  mandate;  which  thus  far  I  have  endured, 

[7%<?  Jire  upon  the  altar  of  Abel  kindles  into  a  column  of 
the  brighteat  fliirne,  and  ascends  to  heaven;  while  a  whirl- 
wind throws  down  the  altar  of  Cain,  and  scattem  the  fruits 
abroad  upon  tlie  earth. 

Abel  {kneeling).  Oh,  brother,  pray!  Jehovah  's  wroth  with 
thee. 

Cain.  Why  so? 

Abel.  Thy  fruits  are  scatter'd  on  the  earth. 

Cain.  From  earth  they  came,  to  earth  let  them  return; 
Their  seed  will  bear  fresh  fruit  there  ere  the  summer: 
Thy  burnt  flesh-offering  prospers  better;  see 
How  heaven  licks  up  the  flames,  when  thick  with  blood! 

Abel.  Think  not  upon  my  offering's  acceptance, 
But  make  another  of  thine'  own  before 
It  is  too  late. 

Cain.  I  will  build  no  more  altars, 

Nor  suffer  any. — 

Abel  {rising).       Cain!  what  meanest  thou? 

Cain.  To  cast  down  yon  vile  flatterer  of  the  clouds, 
The  smoky  harbinger  of  thy  dull  prayers — 
Thine  altar,  with  its  blood  of  lambs  and  kids, 
Which  fed  on  milk,  to  be  destroy'd  in  blood. 

Abel  {opposing  him).  Thou   shalt  not! — add  not  impious 
works  to  impious 
Words!  let  that  altar  stand — 'tis  hallow'd  now 
By  the  immortal  pleasure  of  Jehovah, 
In  His  acceptance  of  the  victims. 

Cain.  His  f 

His  pleasure  !  what  was  His  high  pleasure  In 
The  fumes  of  scorching  flesh  and  smoking  blood, 

Hb '■ ** 


SCENE  I.] 


CAIN. 


277 


To  the  pain  of  the  bleating  mothers,  which 
Still  yearn  for  their  dead  offspring?  or  the  pangs 
Of  the  sad  ignorant  victims  underneath 
Thy  pious  knife?    Give  way!  this  bloody  record 
Shall  not  stand  in  the  sun,  to  shame  creation! 

Aoel.  Brother,  give  back!  thou  shalt  not  touch  my  altar 
With  violence:  if  that  thou  wilt  adopt  it, 
To  try  another  sacrifice,  'tis  thine. 

Cain.  Another  sacrifice!    Give  way,  or  else 
That  sacrifice  may  be 

Abd.  What  mean'st  thou? 

Cain.  Give — 

Give  way! — ^thy  God  loves  blood! — then  look  to  it: — 
Give  way,  ere  He  hath  more! 

Abel.  In  His  great  name, 

I  stand  between  thee  and  the  shrine  which  hath 
Had  His  acceptance. 

Cain.                            If  thou  lov'st  thyself. 
Stand  back  till  I  have  strew'd  this  turf  along 
Its  native  soil: — else 

Abel  {opposing  him).  I  love  God  far  more 
Than  life. 

Cain,  {striking  him  with  a  brand  on  the  temples,   which  he 
snatclies  from  the  altar.) 
Then  take  thy  life  unto  thy  God, 
Since  He  loves  lives. 

Abel  {falls).  What  hast  thou  done,  my  brother? 

Cain.  Brother! 

Abel.  O  God!  receive  Thy  servant,  and 

Forgive  his  slayer,  for  he  knew  not  what 
He  did — Cain,  give  me — give  me  thy  hand;  and  tell 
Poor  Zillah 

Cain  {after  a  momenVs  stupefaction).  My  hand!  'tid  all  red, 
and  with — 
What?  \A  long  pause.— Looking  slowly  round. 

Where  am  I?  alone!    Where  's  Abel?  where 
Cain?    Can  it  be  that  I  am  he?    My  brother. 
Awake — why  liest  thou  so  on  the  green  earth? 
'Tis  not  the  hour  of  slumber; — why  so  pale? 

What,  hast  thou! thou  wert  full  of  life  this  mom! 

Abel!  I  pray  thee,  mock  me  not!    I  smote 

Too  fiercely,  but  not  fatally.    Ah,  why 

Wouldst  thou  oppose  me?    This  is  mockery; 

And  only  done  to  daunt  me: — 'twas  a  blow — 

And  but  a- blow.     Stir— stir— nay,  only  stir! 

Why,  so— that's  well! — thou  breath'st!  breathe  upon  me! 

O  God!  O  God! 

Abel  {very  faintly).  What  's  he  who  speaks  of  God? 

Cain.  Thy  murderer. 

Abel.  Then  may  God  forgive  him!   Cain, 

Comfort  poor  Zillah: — she  has  but  one  brother 
Now.  [Abel  dies. 

Cain.  And  I  none! — Who  makes  me  brotherless? 
His  eyes  are  open!  then  he  is  not  dead! 
Death  is  like  sleep;  and  sleep  shuts  down  our  lids. 
His  lips,  too,  are  apart;  why  then  he  breathes! 
And  yet  I  feel  it  not. — His  heart!— his  heart  I 


Hi- 


^K 


I 


278  CAIN.  [act  in. 

Let  me  see,  doth  It  beat?  methinks No! — ^no! 

This  is  a  vision,  else  I  am  become 

The  native  of  another  and  worse  world. 

The  earth  swims  round  me: — what  is  this? — 'tis  wet; 

[Puts  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  then  looks  at  it. 

And  yet  there  are  no  dews! — 'Tis  blood— my  blood— 
My  brother's  and  my  own!  and  shed  by  me! 
Then  what  have  I  further  to  do  with  life, 
Since  I  have  taken  life  from  my  own  flesh? 
But  he  can  not  be  dead! — Is  silence  death? 
No;  he  will  wake:  then  let  me  watch  by  him. 
Life  can  not  be  so  slight  as  to  be  quench'd 
Thus  quickly! — he  hath  spoken  to  me  since — 
What  shall  I  say  to  himV — My  brother! — No: 
He  will  not  answer  to  that  name;  for  brethren 
Smite  not  each  other.     Yet — yet — speak  to  mo. 
Oh  for  a  word  more  of  that  gentle  voice. 
That  I  may  bear  to  hear  my  own  again! 

Miter  Z  ILL  AH. 

Zillah.  I  heard  a  heavy  sound;  what  can  it  be? 
'Tis  Cain,  and  watching  by  my  husband.     What 
Dost  thou  there,  brother?    Doth  he  sleep?    Oh,  heaven! 
What  means  thid  paleness,  and  yon  stream?    No,  no! 
It  is  not  blood;  for  who  would  shed  his  blood? 
Abel!  what's  this? — who  hath  done  this?    He  moves  not; 
He  breathes  not:  and  his  hands  drop  down  from  mine 
With  stony  lifelessness!    Ah!  cruel  Cain! 
Why  cam'st  thou  not  in  time  to  save  him  from 
This  violence?    Whatever  hath  assail'd  him, 
Thou  wert  the  stronger,  and  should'st  have  stepp'd  in 
Between  him  and  aggression!    Father! — Eve! — 
Adah! — come  hither!    Death  is  in  the  world! 

[Exit  ZiLLAU,  calling  on  ha'  Ihrcnts,  <ic. 

Cain  (sohis).  And  who  hath  brought  him  there? — I— who 
abhor 
The  name  of  Death  so  deeply,  that  the  thought 
Empoison'd  all  my  life,  before  1  knew 
His  aspect — I  have  led  him  here,  and  given 
My  brother  to  his  cold  and  still  embrace. 
As  if  he  would  not  have  asserted  his 
Inexorable  claim  without  my  aid. 
I  am  awake  at  last — a  dreary  dream 
Had  madden'd  me; — but  he  shall  ne'er  awake. 

JEViter  Adam,  Eve,  Adah,  and  Zillah. 

Adam.  A  voice  of  woe  from  Zillah  brings  me  here. — 
What  do  I  see? — 'Tis  true! — My  son! — my  son! 
Woman,  behold  the  serpent's  work,  and  thine!        [To  Eve. 

ijve.  Oh!  speak  not  of  it  now:  the  serpent's  fangs 
Are  in  my  heart.     My  best  beloved,  Abell 
Jehovah!  this  is  punishment  beyond 
A  mother's  sin,  to  take  him  from  me! 

Adam,  Who 

Or  what  hath  done  this  deed? — speak,  Cain,  since  thou 
Wert  present;  was  It  some  more  nostUo  an^l, 

^ — -f- 


-IK 


SCENE   I. 


CAIN. 


279 


Who  walks  not  with  Jehovah?  or  some  wild 
Brute  of  the  forest? 

Eve,                          Ah!  a  livid  light 
Breaks  through,  as  from  a  thunder-cloud!  yon  brand, 
Massy  and  bloody!  snatch 'd  from  off  the  altar, 
And  black  with  smoke,  and  red  with 

Adam.  Speak,  my  son! 

Speak,  and  assure  us,  wretched  as  we  are. 
That  we  are  not  more  miserable  still. 

Adah.  Speak,  Cain!  and  say  it  was  not  thou! 

Eve.  "  It  was. 

I  see  it  now:  he  hangs  his  guilty  head, 
And  covers  his  ferocious  eye  with  hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah.      ...    Mother,  thou  dost  him  wrong — 
Cain!  clear  thee  from  this  horrible  accusal, 
Which  grief  wrings  from  our  parent. 

Eve.                                                        Hear,  Jehovah  1 
May  the  eternal  serpent's  curse  be  on  him! 
For  he  was  fitter  for  his  seed  than  ours. 
May  all  his  days  be  desolate.     May 

Adah.  Hold! 

Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  thy  son — 
Curse  him  not,  mother,  for  he  is  my  brother, 
And  my  betroth'd. 

Eve.  He  hath  left  thee  no  brother —    ' 

Zillah  no  husband — me  no  smi ! — for  thus 
I  curse  him  from  my  sight  for  evermore! 
All  bonds  I  break  between  us!  as  he  broke 

That  of  his  nature,  in  yon O  death!  death! 

Why  didst  thou  not  take  me,  who  first  incurr'd  thee? 
Why  dost  thou  not  so  now? 

Adam.  Eve!  let  not  this. 

Thy  natural  grief,  lead  to  impiety! 
A  heavy  doom  was  long  forespoken  to  us; 
And  now  that  it  begins,  let  it  be  borne 
In  such  sort  as  may  show  our  God,  that  we 
Are  faithful  servants  to  his  His  holy  will. 

Eve  {pointing  to  Cain).  His  will !  the  will  of  yon  incar- 
nate spirit 
Of  death,  whom  I  have  brought  upon  the  earth 
To  strew  it  with  the  dead.    May  all  the  curses 
Of  life  be  on  him!  and  his  agonies 
Drive  him  forth  o'er  the  wilderness,  like  us 
From  Eden,  till  his  children  do  by  him 
As  he  did  by  his  brother!    May  the  swords 
And  wings  of  fiery  cherubim  pursue  him 
By  day  and  night— snakes  spring  up  in  his  path — 
Earth's  fruits  be  ashes  in  his  mouth — the  leaves 
On  which  he  lays  his  head  to  sleep  be  strew' d 
With  scorpions!    May  his  dreams  be  of  his  ^'ictim! 
His  waking  a  continual  dread  of  death! 
May  the  clear  rivers  turn  to  blood,  as  he 
Stoops  down  to  stain  them  with  his  raging  lip. 
May  every  element  shun  or  change  to  him! 
May  he  live  in  the  pangs  which  others  die  with! 
And  death  itself  wax  Bomething  worse  than  death 


*^ir 


■it* 


4- 


CAIN. 


[act  iir. 


To  him  who  first  acquainted  him  with  man! 

Hence,  fratricide!  henceforth  that  word  is  Cain, 

Through  all  the  coming  myriads  of  mankind, 

Who  shall  abhor  thee,  though  thou  wert  their  sire! 

May  the  grass  wither  from  thy  feet!  the  woods 

Deny  thee  shelter!  earth  a  home!  the  dust 

A  grave!  the  sun  his  light!  and  heaven  her  God!  [ExU  lS,v^. 

Adam.  Cain!  get  thee  forth:  we  dwell  no  more  together. 

Depart!  and  leave  the  dead  to  me 1  am 

Henceforth  alone — we  never  must  meet  more. 

Adah.  Oh,  part  not  with  him  thus,  my  father:  do  not 
Add  thy  deep  curse  to  Eve's  upon  his  head! 

Adam.  I  curse  him  not;  his  spirit  be  his  curse. 
Come,  Zillahl 

Zillah.  I  must  watch  by  my  husband's  corse. 

Adam.  "We  will  return  again,  when  he  is  gone 
Who  hath  provided  for  us  this  dread  olfice. 
Come,  Zillah. 

Zillah.  Yet  one  kiss  on  yon  pale  clay, 

And  those  lips  once  so  warm — my  heart!  my  heart! 

[^Exeunt  Adam  and  Zillah,  weeping. 

Adah.   Cain!  thou  hast  heard,  we  must  go  forth.    I  am 
So  shall  our  children  be.     I  will  bear  Enoch,  [ready, 

And  you  his  sister.     Ere  the  sun  declines 
Let  us  depart,  nor  walk  the  wilderness 
Under  the  cloud  of  night.    Nay,  speak  to  me, 
To  me — thine  oicn. 

Cain.  Leave  me! 

Adah.  Why,  all  have  left  thee. 

Cain.  And  wherefore  lingerest  thou?    Dost  thou  not  fear 
To  dwell  with  one  who  hath  done  this? 

Adah.  I  fear 

Nothing  except  to  leave  thee,  much  as  I 
Shrink  from  the  deed  which  leaves  thee  brotherless. 
I  must  not  speak  of  this — it  is  between  thee 
And  the  great  God. 

A  Voice  from  within  exclaims,  Cain!  Cain! 

Adah.  Hear'st  thou  that  voice? 

The  Voice  within.   Cain!  Cain! 

Adah.  It  soundeth  like  an  angel's  tone. 

Enter  tJie  Angel  of  the  Lord. 

Angd.  Where  is  thy  brother  Abel? 

Cakn.  Am  I  then 

My  brother's  keeper? 

Angel.  Cain!  what  hast  thou  done? 

The  voice  of  thy  slain  brother's  blood  cries  out. 
Even  from  the  ground,  unto  the  Lord! — Now  art  thou 
Cursed  from  the  earth,  which  open'd  late  her  mouth 
To  drink  thy  brother's  blood  from  thy  rash  hand. 
Henceforth,  when  thou  shalt  till  the  ground,  it  shall  not 
Yield  thee  her  strength:  a  fugitive  shalt  thou 
Be  from  this  day,  and  vagabond  on  earth. 

Adah.  This  punishment  is  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Behold,  thou  drivest  him  from  the  face  of  earth, 
And  from  the  face  of  God  shall  he  be  hid. 
A  fugitive  and  vagabond  on  earth, 


*Jt 


«- 


4 


-II- 


SCEITB  I.] 


CAIN. 


281 


'Twill  come  to  pass,  that  whoso  findeth  him 
Shall  slay  him. 

Cain.  Would  they  could!  but  who  are  they 

Shall  slay  me?    Where  are  these  on  the  lone  earth 
As  yet  unpeopled? 

Angel.  Thou  hast  slain  thy  brother, 

And  who  shall  warrant  thee  against  thy  son? 

Adah.  Angel  of  Light!  be  merciful,  nor  say 
That  this  poor  aching  breast  now  nourishes 
A  murderer  in  my  boy,  and  of  his  father. 

Angel.  Then  he  would  but  be  what  his  father  is. 
Did  not  the  milk  of  Eve  give  nutriment 
To  him  thou  now  seest  so  besmear'd  with  blood? 
The  fratricide  might  well  engender  parricides. — 
Bill  it  shall  not  be  so — the  Lord  thy  God 
And  mine  commandeth  me  to  set  His  seal 
On  Cain,  so  that  he  may  go  forth  in  safety. 
Who  slayeth  Cain,  a  sevenfold  vengeance  shall 
Be  taken  on  his  head.    Come  hither! 

Cain.  What 

Wouldst  thou  with  me? 

Angel.  To  mark  upon  thy  brow 

Exemption  from  such  deeds  as  thou  hast  done. 

Cain.  No;  let  me  die! 

Angel.  It  nmst  not  be. 

[The  Angel  sets  the  mark  on  Cain's  brow. 

Cain.  It  buras 

My  brow,  but  nought  to  that  which  Is  within  it. 
Is  there  more?  let  me  meet  it  as  I  may. 

Angel.  Stern  hast  thou  been  and  stubborn  from  the  womb, 
As  the  ground  thou  must  henceforth  till ;  but  he 
Thou  slew'st  was  gentle  as  the  flocks  he  tended. 

Cain.  After  the  fall  too  soon  was  I  begotten; 
Ere  yet  my  mother's  mind  subsided  from 
The  serpent,  and  my  sire  still  mourn'd  for  Eden. 
That  which  I  am,  I  am;  I  did  not  seek 
For  life,  nor  did  I  make  myself;  but  could  I 
With  my  own  death  redeem  him  from  the  dust — 
And  why  not  so?  let  him  return  to  day, 
And  I  lie  ghastly!  so  shall  be  restored 
By  God  the  life  to  him  He  loved;  and  taken 
From  me  a  being  I  ne'er  loved  to  bear. 

Angel.  Who  shall  heal  murder?  what  is  done  is  done; 
Go  forth!  fulfil  thy  days!  and  be  thy  deeds 
Unlike  the  last!  [I'he  Angel  disappears. 

Adah.  He  's  gone,  let  us  go  forth; 

I  hear  our  little  Enoch  cry  within  our  bower. 

Cain.  Ah!  little  knows  he  what  he  weeps  fori 
And  I  who  have  shed  blood  cannot  shed  tears! 
But  the  four  rivers  would  not  cleanse  my  soul.  \ 

Think'st  thou  my  boy  will  bear  to  look  on  me? 

Adah.  If  I  thought  that  he  would  not,  I  would — 

Cain  {interrupting  her).  No, 

No  more  of  threats:  we  have  had  too  many  of  them: 
Go  to  our  children;  I  will  follow  thee. 

Adah.  I  will  not  leave  thee  lonely  with  the  dead; 
Let  us  depart  together. 


*ih 


■^h 


I 


CAIN. 


[act  III. 


Cain.  Oh!  thou  dead 

And  everlasting  witness!  whose  unsinliinj? 
Blood  darkens  earth  and  heaven!  what  thou  now  art 
I  know  not!  but  if  thou  seest  what  J  am, 
I  think  thou  wilt  forgive  him  whom  his  God 
Can  ne'er  forgive,  nor  his  own  soul. — Farewell! 
I  must  not,  dare  not  touch  what  I  have  made  thee. 
I,  who  sprung  from  the  same  womb  with  thee,  drain'd 
The  same  breast,  clasp'd  thee  often  to  my  own, 
In  fondness  brotherly  and  boyish,  I 
Can  never  meet  thee  more,  nor  even  dare 
To  do  that  for  thee,  which  thou  shouldst  have  done 
For  me — compose  thy  limbs  into  their  grave — 
The  first  grave  yet  dug  for  mortality. 
But  who  hath  dug  that  grave?    Oh,  earth!  Oh,  earthrf 
For  all  the  fruits  thou  hast  render'd  to  me,  I 
Give  thee  back  this. — Now  for  the  wilderness! 

[Adah  stoops  down  and  kisses  the  body  o/"  Abel. 

Adah.  A  dreary,  and  an  early  doom,  my  brother, 
Has  been  thy  lot!    Of  all  who  mourn  for  thee, 
I  alone  must  not  weep.     My  oflflce  is 
Henceforth  to  dry  up  tears,  and  not  to  shed  them: 
But  yet,  of  all  who  mourn,  none  mourn  like  me, 
Not  only  for  thyself,  but  him  who  slew  thee. 
Now,  Cain!  I  will  divide  thy  burden  with  thee. 

Cain.  Eastward  from  Eden  will  we  take  our  way: 
'Tis  the  most  desolate,  and  suits  my  steps. 

Adah.  Lead!  thou  shalt  be  my  guide,  and  may  our  God 
Be  thine!    Now  let  us  carry  forth  our  children. 

Cain.  And  ?ie  who  lieth  there  was  childless.    I 
Have  dried  the  fountain  of  a  gentle  race. 
Which  might  have  graced  his  recent  marriage  couch, 
And  might  have  temper'd  this  stern  blood  of  mine, 
Uniting  with  our  children  Abel's  ofTspring!     • 
O  Abel! 

Adah.    Peace  be  with  him! 

Cain.  But  with  me !  [Exetmt. 


*ih 


ih 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA.* 


"  Pallas  te  hoc  vulnere,  Pallas 
Immolat,  et  poenam  scelerato  ex  sanguine  sumit." 

u^neid,  lib.  xii. 


Athens:  Capuchin  Convent,  March  17, 1811. 
Slow  sinks,  more  lovely  ere  his  race  be  run, 
Along  Morea's  hills  the  setting  sun; 
Not,  as  in  northern  climes,  obscurely  bright, 
But  one  unclouded  blaze  of  living  light; 
O'er  the  hush'd  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 
Gilds  the  green  wave  that' trembles  as  it  glows: 
On  old  ^gina's  rock  and  Hydra's  isle 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile; 
O'er  his  own  regions  lingering  loves  to  shine, 
Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine. 
Descending  fast,  the  mountain-shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquer'd  Salamis! 
Their  azure  arches  through  the  long  expanse, 
More  deeply  purpled,  meet  his  mellowing  glance, 
And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven, 
Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  of  heaven, 
Till,  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 
Behind  his  Delphian  rock  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

On  such  an  eve  his  palest  beam  he  cast, 
When,  Athens!  here  thy  wisest  look'd  his  last. 
How  watch'd  thy  better  sons  his  farewell  ray, 
That  closed  their  murder'd  sage'st  latest  day; 
Not  yet — not  yet — Sol  pauses  on  the  hill. 
The  precious  hour  of  parting  lingers  still; 
But  sad  his  light  to  agonizing  eyes, 
And  dark  the  mountain's  once  delightful  dyes; 
Gloom  o'er  the  lovely  land  he  seem'd  to  pour. 
The  land  where  Phoebus  never  frown'd  before; 

*  This  satire  on  Lord  Elgin  for  bringing  the  remains  of  Grecian 
art  from  the  Parthenon  to  ;England  was  not  published  by  Lord 
Byron.  He  suppressed  it,  and  used  the  beautiful  opening  lines  for 
his  Corsair.    It  was  published  four  years  after  his  deatli,  in  1828. 

t  Socrates  drank  the  hemlock  a  short  time  before  sunset  (the 
hour  of  execution),  notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  his  disciples 
to  wait  till  the  sun  went  down. 


^t♦ 


^ ^ 

284  THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

But,  ere  he  sunk  below  Cithaeron's  head, 
The  cup  of  woe  was  quaff'd — the  spirit  fled; 
The  soul  of  him  that  scom'd  to  fear  or  fly. 
Who  lived  and  died  as  none  can  live  or  die. 

But,  lo!  from  high  Hymettus  to  the  plain. 
The  queen  of  night  asserts  her  silent  reign:* 
No  murky  vapor,  herald  of  the  storm, 
Hides  her  fair  face,  or  girds  her  glowing  form; 
With  cornice  glimmering  as  the  moonbeams  play, 
There  the  white  column  greets  her  grateful  ray; 
And  bright  around,  with  quivering  beams  beset. 
Her  emblem  sparkles  o'er  the  minaret: 
The  groves  of  olive  scatter' d  dark  and  wide. 
Where  meek  Cephisus  sheds  his  scanty  tide. 
The  cypress  saddening  by  the  sacred  mosque, 
The  gleaming  turret  of  the  gay  kiosk,t 
And  sad  and  sombre  'mid  the  holy  calm. 
Near  Theseus'  fane,  yon  solitary  palm: 
All,  tinged  with  various  hues,  arrest  the  eye; 
And  dull  were  his  that  pass'd  them  heedless  by. 

Again  the  ^gean,  heard  no  more  afar, 
Lulls  his  chafed  breast  from  elemental  war: 
Again  his  waves  in  milder  tints  unfold 
Their  long  expanse  of  sapphire  and  of  gold, 
Mix'd  with  the  shades  of  many  a  distant  isle. 
That  frown,  where  gentler  ocean  deigns  to  smile. 

As  thus  within  the  walls  of  Pallas'  fane,t 
I  mark'd  the  beauties  of  the  land  and  main. 
Alone,  and  friendless,  on  the  magic  shore. 
Whose  arts  and  arms  but  live  in  poet's  lore; 
Oft  as  the  matchless  dome  I  turn'd  to  scan. 
Sacred  to  gods,  but  not  secure  from  man. 
The  past  return'd,  the  present  seem'd  to  cease. 
And  Glory  knew  no  clime  beyoniher  Greece! 

Hours  roll'd  along,  and  Dian's  orb  on  high 
Had  gaiu'd  the  centre  of  her  softest  sky; 
And  yet  unwearied  still  my  footsteps  trod 
O'er  the  vain  shrine  of  many  a  vanish'd  god; 
But  chiefly,  Pallas!  thine;  when  Hecate's  glare, 
Check'd  by  thy  columns,  fell  more  sadly  fair 
O'er  the  chill  marble,  where  the  startling  tread 
Thrills  the  lone  heart  like  echoes  from  the  dead. 
Long  had  I  mused,  and  treasured  every  trace 
The  wreck  of  Greece  recorded  of  her  race, 
When,  lo!  a  giant  form  before  me  strode, 
And  Pallas  hail'd  me  in  her  own  abodel 

♦  The  twiMffht  in  Greece  is  much  shorter  than  in  our  own  country ; 
the  days  in  wintor  are  longer,  but  in  summer  of  less  duralion. 
+  The  kiosk  is  a  Turkish  summer-house:  the  pahn  is  witliout  the 

f>resent  walls  of  Athens,  not  far  from  the  temple  of  Theseus,  be- 
ween  which  and  the  tree  the  wall  Intervenes.    Cephisus'  stream  is 
Indeed  scanty,  and  Ilissus  has  no  stream  at  all. 
t  The  Parthenon,  or  Temple  of  Minerva. 

■4 '■ *- 


4 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

Yes,  'twas  Minerva's  self;  but,  ah!  how  changed 
Since  o'er  the  Dardan  field  in  arms  she  ranged! 
Not  such  as  erst,  by  her  divine  command, 
Her  form  appear'd  from  Phidias'  plastic  hand; 
Gone  were  the  terrors  of  her  awful  brow, 
Her  idle  aegis  bore  no  Gorgon  now; 
Her  helm  was  dinted,  and  the  broken  lance 
Seem'd  weak  and  shaftless  e'en  to  mortal  glance; 
The  olive-branch,  which  still  she  deign'd  to  clasp, 
Shrunk  from  her  touch  and  wither'd  in  her  grasp; 
And,  ah!  though  still  the  brightest  of  the  sky. 
Celestial  tears  bedimm'd  her  large  blue  eye: 
Round  the  rent  casque  her  owlet  circled  slow. 
And  mourn' d  his  mistress  with  a  shriek  of  woe! 


285 


"  Mortal!" — 'twas  thus  she  spake — "  that  blush  of  shame 
Proclaims  the  Briton,  once  a  noble  name: 
First  of  the  mighty,  foremost  of  the  free. 
Now  honor'd  less  by  all,  and  least  by  me: 
Chief  of  thy  foes  shall  Pallas  still  be  found. 
Seek'st  thou  the  cause  of  loathing? — look  around,  v 
Lo!  here,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire, 
I  saw  successive  tyrannies  expire. 
'Scaped  from  the  ravage  of  the  Turk  and  Goth, 
Thy  country  sends  a  spoiler  worse  than  both. 
Survey  this  vacant,  violated  fane; 
Recount  the  relics  torn  that  yet  remain: 
Tliese  Cecrops  placed,  this  Pericles  adom'd,* 
That  Adrian  rear'd  when  drooping  Science  moum'd. 
What  more  I  owe,  let  gratitude  attest — 
Know  Alaric  and  Elgin  did  the  rest. 
That  all  may  learn  from  whence  the  plunderer  came, 
The  insulted  wall  sustains  his  hated  name: 
For  Elgin's  fame  thus  grateful  Pallas  pleads, 
Below,  his  name — above,  behold  his  deeds! 
Be  ever  hail'd  with  equal  honor  here 
The  Gothic  monarch  and  the  Pictish  peer: 
Arms  gave  the  first  his  right,  the  last  had  none, 
But  basely  stole  what  less  barbarians  won. 
So  when  the  lion  quits  his  fell  repast. 
Next  prowls  the  wolf,  the  filthy  jackal  last. 
Flesh,  limbs,  and  blood  the  former  make  their  own, 
The  last  poor  brute  securely  gnaws  the  bone. 
Yet  still  the  gods  are  just,  and  crimes  are  cross'd: 
See  here  what  Elgin  won,  and  what  he  lost! 
Another  name  with  his  pollutes  my  shrine: 
Behold  where  Dian's  beams  disdain  to  shine! 
Some  retribution  still  might  Pallas  claim. 
When  Venus  half  avenged  Minerva's  shame."t 

♦  This  Is  spoken  of  the  city  in  general,  and  not  of  the  Acropolis  in 
particular.  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympius,  by  some  supposed  the 
Pantheon,  was  finished  by  Hadrian;  sixteeen  columns  are  standing, 
of  the  most  beautiful  marble  and  architecture. 

t  His  Lordship's  name,  and  that  of  one  who  no  longer  bears  it,  are 
cai-ved  conspicuously  on  the  Parthenon;  above,  in  a  part  not  far 
distant,  are  the  torn  remnants  of  the  basso-relievos,  destroyed  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  remove  them. 


ih 


ih^ 


-ffl 

286  THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

She  ceased  awhile,  and  thus  I  dared  reply, 
To  soothe  the  vengeance  kindling  in  her  eye: 
"Daughter  of  Jove!  in  Britain's  injured  name, 
A  true-bom  Briton  may  the  deed  disclaim. 
Frov/n  not  on  England;  England  owns  him  not: 
Athena,  nol  thy  plunderer  was  a  Scot. 
Ask'st  thou  the  difference?    From  fair  Phyle's  towers 
Survey  Boeotia; — Caledonia  's  ours. 
And  well  I  know  within  that  bastard  land* 
Hath  Wisdom's  goddess  never  held  command; 
A  barren  soil,  where  Nature's  germs,  confined 
To  stern  sterility,  can  stint  the  mind; 
Whose  thistle  well  betrays  the  niggard  earth. 
Emblem  of  all  to  whom  the  land  gives  birth; 
Each  genial  influence  nurtured  to  resist; 
A  land  of  meanness,  sophistry,  and  mist. 
Each  breeze  from  foggy  mount  and  marshy  plain 
Dilutes  with  drivel  every  drizzly  brain. 
Till,  bursts  at  length,  each  watery  head  o'erflows, 
Foul  as  their  soil,  and  frigid  as  their  snows. 
Then  thousand  schemes  of  petulance  and  pride 
Dispatch  her  scheming  children  far  and  wide: 
Some  east,  some  west,  some  everywhere  but  north, 
In  quest  of  lawless  gain  they  issue  forth. 
And  thus — accursed  be  the  day  and  yearl 
She  sent  a  Pict  to  play  the  felon  here. 
Yet  Caledonia  claims  some  native  worth, 
As  dull  Boeotia  gave  a  Pindar  birth. 
So  may  her  few,  the  letter'd  and  the  brave. 
Bound  to  no  clime,  and  victors  of  the  grave, 
Shake  off  the  sordid  dust  of  such  a  land. 
And  shine  like  children  of  a  happier  strand; 
As  once  of  yore  in  some  obnoxious  place. 
Ten  names  (if  found)  had  saved  a  wretched  race." 

"Mortal!"  the  blue-eyed  maid  resumed,  "once  more 
Bear  back  my  mandate  to  thy  native  shore. 
Though  fallen,  alas!  this  vengeance  yet  is  mine. 
To  turn  my  counsels  far  from  lands  like  thine. 
Hear  then  in  silence  Pallas'  stem  behest; 
Hear  and  believe,  for  time  will  tell  the  rest. 

"  First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  this  deed 
My  curse  shall  light,  on  him  and  all  his  seed; 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire; 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace, 
Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race: 
Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate. 
And  Folly's  praise  repay  for  Wisdom's  hate; 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell. 
Whose  noblest,  native  gusto  is — to  sell: 
To  sell,  and  make— may  Shame  record  the  day! — 
The  state  receiver  of  his  pilfer'd  prey. 
Meantime,  the  flattering,  feeble  dotard.  West, 
Europe's  worst  dauber,  and  poor  Britain's  best, 

*  "Irish  bastards,"  according  to  Sir  Cnllaghan  O'Bralaghan. 

♦■#! : ^ 


-ffi — 

THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA.  287 

With  palsied  hand  shall  turn  each  model  o'er, 

And  own  himself  an  infant  of  fourscore.* 

Be  all  the  bruisers  cull'd  from  all  St.  Giles', 

That  art  and  nature  may  compare  their  styles; 

While  brawny  brutes  in  stupid  wonder  stare, 

And  marvel  at  his  Lordship's  'stone  shop'  there.t 

Round  the  throng'd  gates  shall  sauntering  coxcombs  crceiJ 

To  lounge  and  lucubrate,  to  prate  and  peep; 

While  many  a  languid  maid  with  longing  sigh, 

On  giant  statues  casts  the  curious  eye; 

The  room  with  transient  glance  appears  to  skim. 

Yet  marks  the  mighty  back  and  length  of  limb; 

Mourns  o'er  the  difference  of  7iow  and  then; 

Exclaims,  '  These  Greeks  indeed  were  proper  men!' 

Draws  slight  comparisons  of  these  with  those, 

And  envies  Lais  all  her  Attic  beaux. 

When  shall  a  modern  maid  have  swains  like  these? 

Alas,  Sir  Harry  is  no  Hercules! 

And  last  of  all  amidst  the  gaping  crew, 

Some  calm  spectator,  as  he  takes  his  view, 

In  silent  indignation,  mix'd  with  grief. 

Admires  the  plunder,  but  abhors  the  thief. 

Oh,  loath'd  in  life,  nor  pardon'din  the  dust, 

May  hate  pursue  his  sacrilegious  lust! 

Link'd  with  the  fool  that  fired  the  Ephesian  dome, 

Shall  vengeance  follow  far  beyond  the  tomb, 

And  EratostratosJ  and  Elgin  shine, 

In  many  a  branding  page  and  burning  line; 

Alike  reserved  for  aye  to  stand  accursed, 

Perchance  the  second  blacker  than  the  first. 

"  So  let  him  stand  through  ages  yet  unborn, 
Fix'd  statue  on  the  pedestal  of  Scorn; 
Though  not  for  him  alone  revenge  shall  wait. 
But  fits  thy  country  for  her  coming  fate. 
Hers  were  the  deeds  that  taught  her  lawless  son 
To  do  what  oft  Britannia's  self  had  done. 
Look  to  the  Baltic — blazing  from  afar, 
Your  old  ally  yet  mourns  perfidious  war. 
-Not  to  such  deeds  did  Pallas  lend  her  aid. 
Or  break  the  compact  which  herself  had  made; 
Far  from  such  councils,  from  the  faithless  field 
She  fled — but  left  behind  her  Gorgon  shield; 
A  fatal  gift  that  turned  your  friends  to  stone, 
And  left  lost  Albion  hated  and  alone. 

"  Look  to  the  East,  where  Ganges'  swarthy  race 
Shall  shake  your  tyrant  empire  to  its  base; 
Lo!  there  Rebellion  rears  her  ghastly  head. 
And  glares  the  Nemesis  of  native  dead; 

*  Mr.  West,  on  seeing  the  '"Elgin  Collection"  (I suppose  we  shall 
hear  of  the  "Abershaw"  and  "JackSheppard"  collection),  declared 
himself  "a  mere  tyro  ''  in  art, 

+  Poor  Cribb  was  sadly  puzzled  when  the  marbles  were  first  ex- 
hibited at  Elgin  House;  he  asked  if  it  was  not  "a  stone  shop."— He 
was  right:  it  is  a  shop. 

X  Eratostratos,  who,  in  order  to  make  his  name  remembered,  set 
fire  to  the  Temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus. 

■* *♦ 


"ih 


288 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

Till  Indus  rolls  a  deep  purpureal  flood, 
And  claims  his  long  arrear  of  Northern  blood 
So  may  ye  perish! — Pallas,  when  she  gave 
Your  free-born  rights,  forbade  ye  to  enslave. 

*'  Look  to  your  Spain! — she  clasps  the  hand  she  hates, 
But  boldly  clasps,  and  thrusts  you  from  her  gates. 
Bear  witness,  bright  Barossa!  thou  canst  tell 
Whose  were  the  sons  that  bravely  fought  and  fell. 
But  Lusitania,  kind  and.  dear  ally, 
Can  spare  a  few  to  fight,  and  sometimes  fly. 
Oh,  glorious  field!  by  Famine  fiercely  won, 
The  Gaul  retires  for  once,  and  all  is  done! 
But  when  did  Pallas  teach  that  one  retreat 
Retrieved  three  long  Olympiads  of  defeat? 

"  Look  last  at  home — you  love  not  to  look  there. 
On  the  grim  smile  of  comfortless  despair: 
Your  city  saddens:  loud  though  Revel  howls 
Here  Famine  faints,  and  yonder  Rapine  prowls. 
See  all  alike  of  more  or  less  bereft; 
No  misers  tremble  when  there's  nothing  left. 
'Blest  paper  credit,'*  who  shall  dare  to  sing? 
It  clogs  like  lead  Corruption's  weary  wing. 
Yet  Pallas  pluck'd  each  premier  by  the  ear, 
Who  gods  and  men  alike  disdain' d  to  hear; 
But  one,  repentant  o'er  a  bankrupt  state. 
On  Pallas  calls, — but  calls,  alas!  too  late: 
Then  raves  for  *  *  *  ;  to  that  Mentor  bends, 
Though  he  and  Pallas  never  yet  were  friends. 
Him  senates  hear,  whom  never  yet  they  heard, 
Contemptuous  once,  and  now  no  less  absurd. 
So,  once  of  yore,  each  reasonable  frog 
Swore  faith  and  fealty  to  his  sovereign  *  log.* 
Thus  hail'd  your  rulers  their  patrician  clod, 
As  Egypt  chose  an  onion  for  a  god. 

**  Now  fare  ye  well!  enjoy  your  little  hour: 
Go,  grasp  the  sha.low  of  your  vanish'd  power; 
Gloss  o'er  the  failure  of  each  fondest  scheme; 
Your  strength  a  name,  your  bloated  wealth  a  dream. 
Gone  is  that  gold,  the  marvel  of  mankind. 
And  pirates  barter  all  that's  left  behind.t 
No  more  the  hirelings,  purchased  near  and  far, 
Crowd  to  the  ranks  of  mercenary  war; 
The  idle  merchant  on  the  useless  quay 
Droops  o'er  the  bales  no  bark  may  bear  away; 
Or,  back  returning,  sees  rejected  stores 
Rot  piecemeal  on  nis  own  enoumber'd  shores: 
The  starved  mechanic  breaks  his  rusting  loom. 
And  desperate  mans  him  'gainst  the  coming  doom. 
Then  in  the  senate  of  your  sinking  state 
Show  me  the  man  whose  counsels  may  have  weight. 


1 


♦  "Blest  papercredit  I  last  and  best  supply, 


That  lends  Corruption  lighter  wings  to 
t  The  Deal  and  Dover  traffickers  in  specie. 


Pope. 


^K 


4- 


i- 


THE  CURSE  OF  MINERVA. 

Vain  is  each  voice  where  tones  could  once  command; 

E'en  factions  cease  to  charm  a  factious  land: 

Yet  jarring  sects  convulse  a  sister  isle, 

And  light  with  maddening  hands  the  mutual  pile. 

"  'Tis  done,  'tis  past,  since  Pallas  warns  in  vain; 
The  Furies  sieze  her  abdicated  reign: 
Wide  o'er  the  realm  they  wave  their  kindling  brands, 
And  wring  her  vitals  with  their  fiery  hands. 
But  one  convulsive  struggle  still  remains. 
And  Gaul  shall  weep  ere  Albion  w  ear  her  chains. 
The  banner'd  pomp  of  war,  the  glittering  files, 
O'er  whose  gay  trappings  stern  Bellona  smiles: 
The  brazen  trump,  the  spirit-stirring  drum, 
That  bid  the  foe  defiance  ere  they  come; 
The  hero  bounding  at  his  country's  call, 
The  glorious  death  that  consecrates  his  fall. 
Swell  the  young  heart  with  visionary  charms, 
And  bid  it  antedate  the  joys  of  arms. 
But  know,  a  lesson  you  may  j^et  be  taught. 
With  death  alone  are  laurels  cheaply  bought: 
Not  in  the  conflict  Havoc  seeks  delight, 
His  day  of  mercy  is  the  day  of  fight. 
But  when  the  field  is  fought,  the  battle  won. 
Though  drench'd  with  gore,  his  woes  are  but  begun: 
His  deeper  deeds  as  yet  ye  know  by  name; 
The  slaughter'd  peasant  and  the  ravish'd  dame, 
The  rifled  mansion  and  the  foe-reap'd  field, 
111  suit  with  souls  at  home,  untaught  to  yield. 
Say  with  what  eye  along  the  distant  down 
Would  flying  burghers  mark  the  blazing  town! 
How  view  the  column  of  ascending  flames 
Shake  his  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames? 
Nay,  frown  not,  Albion!  for  the  torch  was  thine 
That  lit  such  pyres  from  Tagus  to  the  Rhine: 
Now  should  they  burst  on  thy  devoted  coast, 
Go,  ask  thy  bosom  who  deserves  them  most. 
The  law  oi  heaven  and  earth  is  life  for  life. 
And  she  who  raised,  in  vain  regrets,  the  strife." 


MAZEPPA. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

*'  Celot  qui  remplissait  alors  cette  place  etait  un  gentilhomme  Po- 
(pnais,  nomme  Mazeppa,  ne  dans  le  palatinat  de  Podolie:  il  avait 
§t6  eleve  page  de  Jean  Casimir,  et  avait  pris  h  sa  cour  quelque  tein- 
ture  des  belles-lettres,  Une  intrigue  qu'il  eut  dans  jeunesse  avec  la 
Eemme  d'un  gentilhomme  Polonais  ayant  cte  decouverte,  lo  marl  le 
at  lier  tout  nu  sur  un  cheval  farouche,  et  le  laissa  aller  en  cat  6tat. 
Le  cheval,  qui  6tait  du  pays  de  I'Ukraine,  y  retounia,  et  y  porta 
Mazeppa,  demi-mort  de  fatigue  et  de  faim.  Quelques  paysans  le 
secoururent:  11  resta  longtemps  parmi  eux,  et  sesignala  dansplu- 
pieurs  courses  contre  les  Tartares.  La  superiority  de  ses  lumieres  lui 
donna  une  grande  consideration  parmi  les  Cosaques:  sa  reputation 
s'augmentant  de  jour  en  jour  obligea  le  Czar  a  le  faire  Prince  de 
I'Ukraine. "~VoL.TAiRE,  Hist,  de  Charles  XII.  p.  196. 

"Le  roi  fuyant,  et  poursuivi,  eut  son  cheval  tu6  sous  lui ;  le  Colo- 
nel Gieta,  blesse,  et  perdant  tout  son  sang,  lui  donna  le  sien.  Ainsi 
on  remit  deux  fois  i  cheval,  dans  sa  fuite,  ce  conqu^rant  qui  n'avait 
pu  y  monter  pendant  le  bataille." — Ibid.  p.  216. 

"  Lo  roi  Hlla  par  un  autre  chemin  avec  quelques  cavaliers.  Le  car- 
rosse,  ou  il  etait,  rompit  dans  la  marche;  on  le  remit  ft  cheval.  Pour 
comble  de  disgrace,  il  s'egara  pendant  la  nuit  dans  un  bois ;  la,  son 
courage  ne  pouvant  plus  suppl6er  a  ses  forces  ^puis§es,  les  douleurs 
de  sa  blessure  devenues  plus  insupportables  par  la  fatigue,  son 
cheval  ^tant  tombS  de  lassitude,  11  se  coucha  quelques  beures  au 
pied  d'un  arbre,  en  danger  d'etre  surpris  h  tout  moment,  paries  vain- 
queurs,  qui  le  cherchaieut  de  tous  c6tls."— i&td.  p.  218. 


■l^ 


■* : IK 


MAZEPPA. 


'TwAS  after  dread  Pultowa's  day, 

When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede, 
Around  a  slaughter'd  army  lay, 

No  more  to  combat  and  to  bleed. 
The  power  and  glory  of  the  war, 

Faithless  as  their  vain  votaries,  men, 
Had  pass'd  to  the  triumphant  Czar, 

And  Moscow's  walls  were  safe  again, 
Until  a  day  more  dark  and  drear. 
And  a  more  memorable  year, 
Should  give  to  slaughter  and  to  shame 
A  mightier  host  and  haughtier  name; 
A  greater  wreck,  a  deeper  fall, 
A  shock  to  one — a  thunderbolt  to  all. 


Such  was  the  hazard  of  the  die; 

The  wounded  Charles  was  taught  to  fly 

By  day  and  night,  through  field  and  flood, 

Stain'd  with  his  own  and  subjects'  blood; 

For  thousands  fell  that  flight  to  aid: 

And  not  a  voice  was  heard  t'  upbraid 

Ambition  in  his  humbled  hour, 

When  truth  had  naught  to  dread  from  power. 

His  horse  was  slain,  and  Gieta  gave 

His  own — and  died  the  Russians'  slave. 

This  too  sinks  after  many  a  league 

Of  well-sustain'd,  but  vain  fatigue; 

And  in  the  depths  of  forests,  darkling 

The  watch-fires  in  the  distance  sparkling — 

The  beacons  of  surrounding  foes — 
A  king  must  lay  his  limbs  at  length. 

Are  these  the  laurels  and  repose 
For  which  the  nations  stram  their  strength? 
They  lay  him  by  a  savage  tree, 
In  outworn  nature's  agony; 
His  wounds  were  stiff — his  limbs  were  stark — 
The  heavy  hour  was  chill  aud  dark; 


* 


MAZEPPA. 

The  fever  In  his  blood  forbade 
A  transient  slumber's  fitful  aid; 
And  thus  it  was;  but  yet  through  all, 
Kinglike  the  monarch  bore  his  fall, 
And  made,  in  this  extreme  of  ill, 
His  pangs  the  vassals  of  his  will: 
All  silent  and  subdued  were  they, 
As  once  the  nations  round  him  lay. 


A  band  of  chiefs! — alas,  how  few, 

Since  but  the  fleeting  of  a  day 
Had  thinn'd  it;  but  this  wreck  was  true 

And  chivalrous:  upon  the  clay 
Each  sate  him  down,  all  sad  and  mute. 

Beside  his  monarch  and  his  steed, 
For  danger  levels  man  and  brute, 

And  all  are  fellows  in  their  need. 
Among  the  rest  Mazeppa  made 
His  pillow  in  an  old  oak's  shade — 
Himself  as  rough,  and  scarce  less  old, 
The  Ukraine's  Hetman,  calm  and  bold; 
But  first,  outspent  with  this  long  course. 
The  Cossack  prince  rubb'd  down  his  horse. 
And  made  for  him  a  leafy  bed. 

And  smooth'd  his  fetlocks  and  his  mane. 

And  slack'd  his  girth,  and  stripp'd  his  rein, 
And  joy'd  to  see  how  well  he  fed; 
For  until  now  he  had  the  dread 
His  wearied  courser  might  refuse 
To  browse  beneath  the  midnight  dews: 
But  he  was  hardy  as  his  lord, 
And  little  cared  for  bed  and  board; 
But  spirited  and  docile  too, 
Whate'er  was  to  be  done,  would  do. 
Shaggy  and  swift,  and  strong  of  limb, 
All  Tartar-like  he  earned  him; 
Obey'd  his  voice,  and  came  at  call. 
And  knew  him  in  the  midst  of  all: 
Though  thousands  were  around — and  night, 
"Without  a  star,  pursued  her  flight — 
That  steed  from  sunset  until  dawn 
His  chief  would  follow  like  a  fawn. 

I  i 

This  done,  Mazeppa  spread  his  cloak,  I 

And  laid  his  lance  beneath  his  oak,  i  ' 

Felt  if  his  arms  in  order  good 

The  long  day's  march  had  well  withstood — 

If  still  the  powder  fill'd  the  pan, 

And  flints  unloosen' d  kept  their  lock — 
His  sabre's  hilt  and  scabbard  felt. 
And  whether  they  had  chafed  Uis  belt;— 
And  next  the  venerable  man. 
From  out  his  haversack  and  can, 

Prepared  and  spread  his  slender  stock; 


Ht 


>m  *■ 

MAZEPPA.  293 

And  to  the  monarch  and  his  men 

The  whole  or  portion  offer' d  then, 

With  far  less  of  inquietude 

Than  courtiers  at  a  banquet  would. 

And  Charles  of  this  his  slender  share 

With  smiles  partook  a  moment  there, 

To  force  of  cheer  a  greater  show, 

And  seem  above  both  wounds  and  woe; — 

And  then  he  said, — "  Of  all  our  band. 

Though  firm  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 

In  skirmish,  march,  or  forage,  none 

Can  less  have  said  or  more  have  done 

Than  thee,  Mazeppa!     On  the  earth 

So  fit  a  pair  had  never  birth, 

Since  Alexander's  days  till  now, 

As  thy  Bucephalus  and  thou; 

All  Scythia's  fame  to  thine  should  yield 

For  pricking  on  o'er  flood  and  field." 

Mazeppa  answer'd, — "  111  betide 

The  school  wherein  I  leam'd  to  ride!"' 

Quoth  Charles,—"  Old  Hetman,  wherefore  so, 

Since  thou  hast  leam'd  the  art  so  well?" 

Mazeppa  said,— "'Twere  long  to  tell; 

And  we  have  many  a  league  to  go, 

With  every  now  and  then  a  blow, 

And  ten  to  one  at  least  the  foe, 

Before  our  steeds  may  graze  at  ease 

Beyond  the  swift  Borysthenes: 

And,  sire,  your  limbs  have  need  of  rest. 

And  I  will  be  the  sentinel 

Of  this  your  troop."—**  But  I  request," 

Said  Sweden's  monarch,  "thou  wilt  tell 

This  tale  of  thine,  and  I  may  reap. 

Perchance,  from  this  the  boon  of  sleep; 

For  at  this  moment  from  my  eyes 

The  hope  of  present  slumber  flies." 

"  Well,  sire,  with  such  a  hope  I'll  track 
My  seventy  years  of  memory  back: 
I  think  'twas  in  my  twentieth  spring, — 
Ay,  'twas — when  Casimir  was  king — 
John  Casimir, — I  was  his  page 
Six  summers  in  my  earlier  age: 
A  learned  monarch,  faith!  was  he. 
And  most  unlike  your  Majesty: 
He  made  no  wars,  and  did  not  gain 
New  realms  to  lose  them  back  again; 
And  (save  debates  in  Warsaw's  Diet) 
He  reign'd  m  most  unseemly  quiet: 
Not  that  he  had  no  cares  to  vex; 
He  loved  the  muses  and  the  sex: 
And  sometimes  these  so  froward  are, 
They  made  him  wish  himself  at  war; 
But  soon  his  wrath  being  o'er,  he  took 
Another  mistress,  or  new  book: 
And  then  he  gave  prodigious  fetes — 
All  Warsaw  gather'd  round  his  gates 


«♦ 


rmmmimmmm 


294  MAZEPPA. 

To  gaze  upon  his  splendid  court., 

And  dames,  and  chiefs,  of  i^rincely  port; 

He  was  the  Polish  Solomon, 

So  sung  his  poets,  all  but  one. 

Who,  being  unpension'd,  made  a  satire, 

And  boasted  that  he  could  not  flatter. 

It  was  a  court  of  jousts  and  mimes, 

Where  every  courtier  tried  at  rhymes; 

Even  I  for  once  produced  some  verses. 

And  sign'd  my  odes  "  Despairing  Thyrsis.'* 

There  was  a  certain  Palatine, 

A  count  of  far  and  high  descent, 
Rich  as  a  salt  or  silver  mine:* 
And  he  was  proud,  ye  may  divine, 

As  if  from  heaven  he  had  been  sent: 
He  had  such  wealth  in  blood  and  ore 

As  few  could  match  beneath  the  throne; 
And  he  would  gaze  upon  his  store, 
And  o'er  his  pedigree  would  pour. 
Until  by  some  confusion  led, 
W^hich  almost  look'd  like  want  of  head. 

He  thought  their  merits  were  his  own. 
His  wife  was  not  of  his  opinion — 

His  junior  she  by  thirty  years — 
Grew  daily  tired  of  his  dominion, 

And  after  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 

To  virtue  a  few  farewell  tears, 
A  restless  dream  or  two,  some  glances 
At  Warsaw's  youth,  some  songs,  and  dances, 
Awaited  but  the  usual  chances. 
Those  happy  accidents  which  render 
The  coldest  dames  so  very  tender. 
To  deck  her  Count  with  titles  given 
'Tis  said,  as  passports  into  heaven; 
But,  strange  to  say,  they  rarely  boast 
Of  these,  who  have  deserved  them  most. 

v. 
"I  was  a  goodly  stripling  then: 

At  seventy  years  I  so  may  say, 
That  there  were  few,  or  boys  or  men, 

Who,  in  my  dawning  time  of  day, 
Of  vassal  or  of  knight  s  degree. 
Could  vie  in  vanities  with  me. 
For  I  had  strength,  youth,  gaiety, 
A  port,  not  like  to  this  ye  see, 
But  smooth,  as  all  is  rugged  now; 

For  time,  and  care,  and  war  have  plough'd 
My  very  soul  from  out  my  brow; 

And  thus  I  should  be  disavow  d 
By  all  my  kind  and  kin,  could  they 
Compare  my  day  and  yesterday. 
This  change  was  wrought,  too,  long  ere  age 
Had  ta'en  my  features  for  his  page: 

*  This  comparison  of  a  "salt  mine  "  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted 
to  a  Pole,  as  the  wealth  of  the  coimtry  consists  greatly  In  the  sali 
mines. 


Mh 


i i 

MAZEPPA.  205 

With  years,  ye  know,  have  not  declined 
My  strength,  my  courage,  or  my  mind, 
Or  at  this  hour  I  should  not  be 
Telling  old  tales  beneath  a  tree, 
With  starless  skies  my  canopy. 

But  let  me  on!  Theresa's  form — 
Methinks  it  glides  before  me  now, 
Between  me  and  yon  chestnut's  bough, 

The  memory  is  so  quick  and  warm; 
And  yet  I  fie  d  no  words  to  tell 
The  shape  of  her  I  loved  so  well; 
She  had  the  Asiatic  eye, 

Such  as  our  Turkish  neighborhood 

Hath  mingled  with  our  Polish  blood, 
Dark  as  above  us  is  the  sky; 
But  through  it  stole  a  tender  light. 
Like  the  first  moonrise  of  midnight; 
Large,  dark,  and  swimming  in  the  stream, 
Which  seem'd  to  melt  to  its  own  beam; 
All  love,  half  languor,  and  half  fire, 
Like  saints  that  at  the  stake  erpire, 
And  lift  their  raptured  looks  on  high, 
As  though  it  were  a  joy  to  die, 
A  brow  uke  a  midsummer  lake. 

Transparent  with  the  sun  therein, 
When  waves  no  murmur  dare  to  make, 

And  heaven  beholds  her  face  within. 
A  cheek  and  lip — but  why  proceed? 

I  loved  her  then— I  love  her  still; 
And  such  as  I  am,  love  indeed 

In  fierce  extremes — in  good  and  ilL 
But  still  we  love  even  in  our  rage. 
And  haunted  to  our  very  age 
With  the  vain  shadow  of  the  past, 
As  ia  Mazeppa  to  the  last.  * 


VI, 

**  We  met — ^we  gazed — I  saw,  and  eigh'd; 
She  did  not  speak,  and  yet  replied; 
There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 
We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines — 
Involuntary  sparks  of  thought. 
Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought. 
And  form  a  strange  intelligence, 
Alike  mysterious  and  intense, 
Which  Unk  the  burning  chain  that  binds 
Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds, 
Conveying,  as  the  electric  wire. 
We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire. — 
I  saw,  and  sigh'd — in  silence  wept, 
And  still  reluctant  distance  kept, 
Until  I  was  made  known  to  her. 
And  we  might  then  and  there  confer 
Without  suspicion— then,  even  then, 
I  long'd,  and  was  resolved  to  speak; 


296  MAZEPPA. 

But  on  my  lips  they  died  again, 

The  accents  tremulous  and  weak, 
Until  one  hour. — There  is  a  game, 

A  frivolous  and  foolish  play, 

Wherewith  we  while  away  the  day: 
It  is — I  have  forgot  the  name — 
And  we  to  this,  it  seems,  were  set, 
By  some  strange  chance,  which  I  forget: 
I  reck'd  not  if  I  won  or  lost, 

If  was  enough  for  me  to  be 

So  near  to  hear,  and  oh!  to  see 
The  being  whom  I  loved  the  most. 
I  watch'd  her  as  a  sentinel, 
(May  ours  this  dark  night  watch  as  well!) 

Until  I  saw,  and  thus  it  was. 
That  she  was  pensive,  nor  perceived 
Her  occupation,  nor  was  giieved 
Nor  glad  to  lose  or  gain:  but  stiU 
Play'd  on  for  hours,  as  if  her  will 
Yet  bound  her  to  the  place,  though  not 
That  hers  might  be  the  winning  lot. 

Then  through  my  brain  the  thought  did  pass, 
Even  as  a  flash  of  lightning  there. 
That  there  was  something  in  her  air 
Which  would  not  doom  me  to  despair; 
And  on  the  thought  my  words  broke  forth, 

All  incoherent  as  they  were — 
Their  eloquence  was  little  worth, 
But  yet  she  listened — 'tis  enough — 

Who  listens  once  will  listen  twice; 

Her  heart,  be  sure,  is  not  of  ice, 
And  one  refusal  no  rebuff. 


VII. 

"  I  loved,  and  was  beloved  again — 
They  tell  me,  sire,  you  never  knew 
Those  gentle  frailties;  if  'tis  true, 

I  shorten  all  my  joy  or  pain; 

To  you  'twould  seem  absurd  as  vain; 

But  all  men  are  not  born  to  reign, 

Or  o'er  their  passions,  or  as  you 

Thus  o'er  themselves  and  nations  too. 

I  am — or  rather  was — a  prince, 
A  chief  of  thousands,  and  could  lead 
Them  on  where  each  would  foremost  bleed; 

But  could  not  o'er  myself  evince 

The  like  control. — But  to  resume: 
I  loved  and  was  beloved  again; 

In  sooth  it  Is  a  happy  doom, 
But  yet  where  happiest  ends  in  pain.—    ] 

We  met  in  secret,  and  the  hour 

Which  led  rae  to  that  lady's  bower 

Was  fiery  Expectation's  dower. 

My  days  and  nights  were  nothing — all 

Except  that  hour  which  doth  recall 

In  the  long  lapse  from  youth  to  age 


♦It 


<> 

^h 


MAZEPPA. 

No  other  like  itself— I'd  give 

The  Ukraine  back  again  to  live 
It  o'er  once  more,  and  be  a  page, 
The  happy  page,  who  was  the  lord 
Of  one  soft  heart,  and  his  own  sword, 
And  had  no  other  gem  nor  wealth 
Save  nature's  gift  of  youth  and  health. 
We  met  in  secret — doubly  sweet. 
Some  say,  they  find  it  so  to  meet; 
I  know  not  that — I  would  have  given 

My  life  but  to  have  call'd  her  mine 
In  the  full  view  of  earth  and  heaven. 

For  I  did  oft  and  long  repine 
That  we  could  only  meet  by  stealth. 


297 


VIII. 

**  For  lovers  there  are  many  eyes. 
And  such  there  were  on  us; — the  devil 
On  such  occasions  should  be  civil — 

The  devil!— I'm  loth  to  do  him  wrong; 
It  might  be  some  untoward  saint 

Who  would  not  be  at  rest  too  long. 
But  to  his  pious  bile  give  vent — 

But  one  fair  night,  some  lurking  spies 

Surprised  and  seized  us  both. 

The  Count  was  something  more  than  wroth- 

I  was  unarm'd;  but  if  in  steel, 

All  cap-Srpie  from  head  to  heel, 

What  'gainst  their  numbers  could  I  do, — 

'Twas  near  his  castle,  far  away 
From  city  or  from  succor  near. 

And  almost  on  the  break  of  day; 

I  did  not  think  to  see  another. 
My  moments  seem'd  reduced  to  few; 

And  with  one  prayer  to  Mary  Mother, 
And  it  may  be  a  saint  or  two,  ' 

As  I  resign' d  me  to  my  fate. 

They  led  me  to  the  castle-gate: 
Theresa's  doom  I  never  knew. 

Our  lot  was  henceforth  separate. — 

An  angry  man,  ye  may  opine, 

Was  he,  the  proud  Count  Palatine; 

And  he  had  reason  good  to  be'. 
But  he  was  most  enraged  lest  such 
An  accident  should  chance  to  touch 

Upon  his  future  pedigree; 

Nor  less  amazed  that  such  a  blot 

His  noble  'scutcheon  should  have  got, 

While  he  was  highest  of  his  line; 
Because  unto  himself  he  seem'd 
The  first  of  men,  nor  less  he  deem'd 

In  others'  eyes,  and  most  in  mine. 

'Sdeath,  with  a  page — perchance  a  king 

Had  reconciled  him  to  the  thing; 

But  with  a  stripling  of  a  page — 

I  felt — but  cannot  paint  his  rage. 


^^ 


iK 


^h 


MAZEPPA. 


**  *  Bring  forth  the  horse!'    The  horse  -was  brought; 

In  truth  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled — 

'Twas  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  strugghng  fiercely,  but  in  vain. 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-bom  was  led; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash — 
Away! — away! — and  on  we  dash! — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash  I 


I. 

"Away! — awayl— my  breath  was  gone — 

I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on: 

'Twas  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foam'd — away! — away! — 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 

As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes. 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 

Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 

A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout: 

With  sudden  wrath  I  wrench'd  my  head, 

And  snapp'd  the  cord  which  to  the  mane 

Had  bound  bound  my  neck  in  lieu  of  rein. 
And,  writhing  half  my  form  about, 
Howl'd  back  my  curse;  but  'midst  the  thread, 
The  thunder  of  my  courser's  speed. 
Perchance  they  did  not  hear  nor  heed: 
It  vexes  me— for  I  would  fain 
Have  paid  their  insult  back  again. 
I  paid  it  well  in  after  days: 
There  is  not  of  that  castle-gate. 
Its  drawbridge  and  portcullis  weight, 
Stone,  bar,  moat,  bridge,  or  barrier  left; 
Nor  of  its  field  a  blade  of  grass, 

Save  what  grows  on  a  ridge  of  wall. 

Where  stood  the  hearthstone  of  the  hall; 
And  many  a  time  ye  there  might  pass. 
Nor  dream  that  e'er  that  fortress  was: 
I  saw  its  turrets  in  a  blaze. 
Their  crackling  battlements  all  cleft, 

And  the  hot  lead  pour  down  like  rain 
From  off  the  scorch'd  and  blackening  roof, 
Whose  thickness  was  not  vengeance-proof. 

They  little  thought  that  day  of  pain, 
When  launch'd,  as  on  the  lightning's  flash, 
They  bade  me  to  destruction  dash. 

That  one  day  I  should  come  again, 


^ 

MAZEPPA.  299 


With  twice  five  thousand  horse,  to  thank 

The  Count  for  his  uncourteous  ride. 
They  play'd  me  then  a  bitter  prank, 

When,  with  the  wild  horse  for  my  guide, 
They  bound  me  to  his  foaming  flank: 
At  length  I  plaj^'d  them  one  as  frank — 
For  time  at  last  sets  all  things  even — 
And  if  we  do  but  watch  the  hour, 
There  never  yet  was  human  power 
Which  could  evade,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong. 


XI. 

"Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 

Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind. 

All  human  dwellings  left  behmd; 
We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky. 
When  with  its  crackling  sound  the  night 
Is  chequer'd  with  the  northern  light; 
Town— village— none  were  on  our  track, 

But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 
And  bounded  by  a  forest  black; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen*battlement 
On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 
Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man.    The  year  before 
A  Turkish  army  had  march'd  o'er; 
And  where  the  Spahi's  hoof  hath  trod, 
The  verdure  flies  the  bloody  sod; — 
The  sky  was  dull,  and  dim,  and  gray. 

And  a  low  breeze  crept  moaning  by — 

I  could  have  answer'd  with  a  sigh — 
But  fast  we  fled,  away,  away, — 
And  I  could  neither  sigh  nor  pray; 
And  my  cold  sweat-drops  fell  like  rain 
Upon  the  courser's  bristling  mane; 
But,  snorting  still  with  rage  and  fear, 
He  flew  upon  his  far  career; 
At  times  I  almost  thought,  indeed. 
He  must  have  slacken'd  in  his  speed; 
But  no — my  bound  and  slender  frame 

Was  nothing  to  his  angry  might. 
And  merely  like  a  spur  became: 
Each  motion  which  1  made  to  free 
My  swoU'n  limbs  from  their  agony 

Increased  his  fury  and  affright; 
I  tried  my  voice — 'twas  faint  and  low, 
But  yet  he  swerved  as  from  a  blow; 
And,  starting  to  each  accent,  sprang 
As  from  a  sudden  trumpet's  clang; 
Meantime  my  cords  were  wet  with  gore, 
Which,  oozing  through  my  limbs,  ran  o'er; 
And  in  my  tongue  the  thirst  became 
A  something  fierier  than  flame. 


-t 


ih 


300 


MAZEPPA. 


"We  near*d  the  wild  wood— 'twas  eo  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side; 
'Twas  studded  with  old  sturdy  trees, 
That  bent  not  to  the  roughest  breeze 
Which  howls  down  from  Siberia's  waste, 
And  strips  the  forest  in  its  haste- 
But  these  were  few  and  far  between, 
Set  thick  with  shrubs  more  young  and  green. 
Luxuriant  with  their  annual  leaves. 
Ere  strewn  by  those  autumnal  eves 
That  nip  the  forest's  foliage  dead, 
Discolor'd  with  a  lifeless  red, 
Which  stands  thereon,  like  stiffen'd  gore 
Upon  the  slain  when  battle  's  o'er, 
And  some  long  winter's  night  hath  shed 
Its  frosts  o'er  every  tombless  head. 
So  cold  and  stark  the  raven's  beak 
May  peck  unpierced  each  frozen  cheek: 
'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine; 

But  far  apart— jand  well  it  were. 
Or  else  a  different  lot  were  ming.— 

The  boughs  gave  way,  and  did  not  tear 
My  limbs;  and  I  found  strength  to  bear 
My  wounds,  already  scarr'd  with  cold — 
My  bonds  forbade  to  loose  my  hold. 
We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind; 
By  night  I  heard  them  on  the  track. 
Their  troop  came  hard  upon  our  back. 
With  their  long  gallop,  which  can  tire 
The  hound's  deep  hate  and  hunter's  fire: 
Where'er  we  flew  they  follow'd  on. 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood. 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  ni^ht  had  n  card  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rusthng  step  repeat. 
Ohl  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde. 
And  perish — if  it  must  be  so — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe. 
When  first  my  courser's  race  began, 
I  wish'd  the  goal  already  won; 
But  now  I  doubted  strength  and  speed. 
Vain  doubt!  his  swift  and  savage  breed 
Had  nerved  him  like  the  mountain  roe; 
Nor  faster  falls  the  blinding  snow 
Which  whelms  the  peasant  near  the  door 
Whose  threshold  he  shall  cross  no  more, 
Bewilder'd  with  the  dazzling  blast, 
Than  through  the  forest-paths  he  pass'd — 


•^^ 


I 


MAZEPPA. 

Untired,  untamed,  and  worse  than  wild; 
All  furious  as  a  favor'd  child 
Balk'd  oJC  its  wish;  or  fiercer  stfll— 
A  woman  piqued— who  has  her  will. 


301 


TTTT. 

"  The  wood  was  pass'd;  'twas  more  than  noon, 

But  chill  the  air,  although  in  June; 

Or  it  might  be  my  veins  ran  cold — 

Prolong'd  endurance  tames  the  bold; 

And  I  was  then  not  what  I  seem, 

But  headlong  as  a  wintry  stream, 

And  wore  my  f eeUngs  out  before 

I  weU  could  count  their  causes  o'er: 

And  what  with  fury,  fear,  and  wrath. 

The  tortures  which  beset  my  path, 

Cold,  hunger,  sorrow,  shame,  distress,        / 

Thus  bound  in  nature's  nakedness; 

Sprung  from  a  race  whose  rising  blood, 

"When  stirr'd  beyond  its  calmer  mood. 

And  trodden  hard  upon,  is  like 

The  rattlesnake's,  in  act  to  strike. 

What  marvel  if  the  worn-out  trunk 

Beneath  its  woes  a  moment  sunk? 

The  earth  gave  way,  the  skies  roll'd  round, 

I  seem'd  to  sink  upon  the  ground; 

But  err'd,  for  I  w^as  fastly  bound. 

My  heart  tum'd  sick,  my  brain  grew  sore. 

And  throbb'd  awhile,  then  beat  no  more: 

The  skies  spun  like  a  mighty  wheel; 

I  saw  the  trees  like  drunkards  reel. 

And  a  slight  flash  sprang  o'er  my  eyes. 

Which  saw  no  further:  he  who  dies 

Can  die  no  more  than  then  I  died. 

O'ertortured  by  that  ghastly  ride, 

I  felt  the  blackness  come  and  go. 

And  strove  to  wake;  but  coulcl  not  make 
My  senses  climb  up  from  below; 
I  felt  as  on  a  plank  at  sea, 
When  all  the  waves  that  dash  o'er   thee 
At  the  same  time  upheave  and  whelm, 
And  hurl  thee  towards  a  desert  realm. 
My  undulating  life  was  as 
The  fancied  lights  that  flitting  pass 
Our  shut  eyes  in  deep  midnight,  when 
Fever  begins  upon  the  brain; 
But  soon  it  pass'd,  with  little  pain. 
But  a  confusion  worse  than  such: 
I  own  that  I  should  deem  it  much. 
Dying,  to  feel  the  same  again; 
And  yet  I  do  suppose  we  must 
Feel  far  more  ere  we  turn  to  dust: 
No  matter;  I  have  bared  my  brow 
Full  in  Death's  face — before— and  now. 


*it 


r 


-i 


302 


MAZEPPA. 


A. 


"  My  thoughts  came  back;  where  was  I?    Cold, 
And  numb,  and  giddy:  pulse  by  pulse 

Life  reassumed  its  lingering  hold, 

And  throb  by  throb;  till  grown  a  pang 
Which  for  a  moment  could  convulse, 
My  blood  reflow'd,  though  thick  and  chUl; 

My  ear  with  uncouth  noises  rang. 
My  heart  began  once  more  to  thrill; 

My  sight  retum'd,  though  dim,  alasl 

And  thicken'd,  as  it  were  with  glass. 

Methought  the  dash  of  waves  was  nigh; 

There  was  a  gleam,  too,  of  the  sky 

Studded  with  stars; — it  is  no  dream; 

The  wild  horse  swims  the  wilder  stream, 

The  bright,  broad  river's  gushing  tide 

Sweeps,  winding  onward,  far  and  wide, 

And  we  are  halfway,  struggling  o'er 

To  yon  unknown  and  silent  shore. 

The  waters  broke  my  hollow  trance, 

And  with  a  temporary  strength 
My  stiffen 'd  limbs  were  rebaptized. 

My  courser's  broad  breast  proudly  braves, 

And  dashes  off  the  ascending  waves, 

And  onward  we  advance! 

We  reach  the  slippery  shore  at  length, 
A  haven  1  but  little  prized, 

For  all  behind  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  before  was  ni^ht  and  fear. 

How  many  hours  of  night  or  day 

In  those  suspended  pangs  I  lay, 

I  could  not  tell;  I  scarcely  knew 

If  this  were  human  breath  I  drew. 


i 


^h 


XV. 

"  With  glossy  skin,  and  dripping  mane, 
And  reeling  limbs,  and  reeking  flank, 

The  wild  steed's  sinewy  nerves  still  strain 
Up  the  repelling  bank. 

We  gain  the  top;  a  boundless  plain 

Spreads  through  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
And  onward,  onward,  onward  seems 
Like  precipices  in  our  dreams. 

To  stretch  beyond  the  sight; 

And  here  and  there  a  speck  of  white, 
Or  scatter'd  spot  of  dusky  green, 

In  masses  broke  into  the  light, 

As  rose  the  moon  upon  my  right: 
But  nought  distinctly  seen 

In  the  dim  waste  would  indicate 

The  omen  of  a  cottage  gate; 

No  twinkling  taper  from  afar 

Stood  like  a  hospitable  star; 

Not  even  an  ignis-f atuus  rose 

To  make  him  merry  with  my  woes: 


r 


^^ 


MAZEPPA. 

That  very  cheat  had  cheer'd  me  then! 
Although  detected,  welcome  still! 
Reminding  me,  through  every  ill, 

Of  the  abodes  of  men. 

XVI. 

"  Onward  we  went,  but  slack  and  slow; 

His  savage  force  at  length  o'erspent, 
The  drooping  courser,  faint  and  low, 

Or  feebly  foaming  went. 
A  sickly  infant  had  had  power 
To  guide  him  forward  in  that  hour; 

But  useless  all  to  me: 
His  new-bom  tameness  noHght  avail'd. 
My  limbs  were  bound;  my  force  had  fail'd, 

Perchance,  had  they  been  free. 
With  feeble  effort  still  I  tried 
To  rend  the  bonds  so  starkly  tied — 

But  still  it  was  in  vain; 
My  limbs  were  only  wrung  the  more, 
And  soon  the  idle  strife  gave  o'er, 

Which  but  prolong'd  their  pain: 
The  dizzy  race  seem'd  almost  done, 
Although  no  goal  was  nearly  won: 
Some  streaks  announced  the  coming  sun — 

How  slow,  alas,  he  came! 
Methought  that  mist  of  dawning  gray 
Would  never  dapple  into  day; 
How  heavily  it  roll'd  away — 

Before  the  eastern  flame 
Rose  crimson,  and  deposed  the  stars. 
And  call'd  the  radiance  from  their  cars. 
And  fill'd  the  earth,  from  his  deep  throne. 
With  lonely  lustre,  all  his  own. 


303 


XVII. 

"  Up  rose  the  sun:  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world 
Which  lay  around — behind — before: 
What  booted  it  to  traverse  o'er 
Plain,  forest,  river?    Man  nor  brute, 
Nor  dint  of  hoof,  nor  print  of  foot, 
Lay  in  the  wild  luxuriant  soil; 
No  sign  of  travel — none  of  toil; 
The  very  air  was  mute; 
And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice,  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.    Many  a  werst, 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst. 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger 'd  on; 
And  still  we  were — or  seem'd — alone: 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh. 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs? 
No,  no!  from  out  the  forest  prance 


*it 


^^■ 


4. 


304  MAZEPPA. 

A  trampling  troop;  I  see  them  come  I 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance  I 

I  strove  to  cry — my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide? 
A  thousand  horse — and  none  to  ride! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils,  never  stretch'd  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod. 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 
A  thousand  horse,  the  wild,  the  free, 
Like  waves  that  follow  o'er  the  sea, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on. 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet; 
The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable. 
His  first  and  last  career  is  done! 
On  came  the  troop — they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  rna.ny  a  bloody  thong: 
They  stop— they  start — they  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there. 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed. 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide: 
They  snort— they  foam— neigh— swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly. 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye.-- 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Kelieved  from  that  unwonted  weight. 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him,  nor  me; — and  there  we  lay. 


The  dying  on  the  dead! 
I  little  deem'd 


another  day 
Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 


4h 


"And  there  from  mom  till  twilight  bound, 

I  felt  the  heavy  hours  toll  round. 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  see 

My  last  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

In  hopeless  certainty  of  mind. 

That  makes  us  feel  at  length  resign'd 

To  that  which  our  foreboding  years 

Present  the  worst  and  last  of  fears: 

Inevitable — even  a  boon, 

Nor  more  uokind  for  coming  bood; 


r 


^^ 


MAZEPPA.  805 

Yet  shunn'd  and  dreaded  with  Bucti  care, 
As  if  it  only  were  a  snare 

That  prudence  might  escape: 
At  times  both  wish'd  for  and  implored, 
At  times  sought  with  self-pointed  sword, 
Yet  still  a  dark  and  hideous  close 
To  even  intolerable  woes, 

And  welcome  in  no  shape. 
And,  strange  to  say,  the  sons  of  pleasure, 
They  who  have  revell'd  beyond  measure 
In  beauty,  wassail,  wine,  and  treasure, 
Die  calm,  or  calmer,  oft  than  he 
Whose  heritage  was  misery: 
For  he  who  hath  in  turn  run  through 
All  that  was  beautiful  and  new. 

Hath  nought  to  hope,  and  nought  to  leave; 
And,  save  the  future  (which  is  view'd 
Not  quite  as  men  are  base  or  gdod. 
But  as  their  nerves  may  be  endued), 

With  nought  perhaps  to  grieve: — 
The  wretch  still  hopes  his  woes  must  end, 
And  Death,  whom  he  should  deem  his  friend, 
Appears  to  his  distemper'd  eyes, 
Arrived  to  rob  him  of  his  prize, 
The  tree  of  his  new  Paradise. 
To-morrow  would  have  given  him  all,  -- 

Repaid  his  pangs,  repair d  his  fall: 
To-morrow  would  have  been  the  first 
Of  days  no  more  deplored  or  curst, 
But  bright,  and  long,  and  beckoning  j'ears, 
Seen  dazzling  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
Guerdon  of  many  a  painful  hour; 
To-mon'ow  would  have  given  him  power 
To  rule,  to  shine,  to  smite,  to  save — 
And  must  it  dawn  upon  his  grave? 


"  The  sun  was  sinking — still  I  lay 

Chain'.d  to  the  chill  and  stiffening  steed; 
I  thought  to  mingle  there  our  clay, 

And  my  dim  eyes  of  death  had  need. 

No  hope  arose  of  being  freed: 
I  cast  my  last  looks  up  the  sky 

And  there  between  me  and  the  sun 
I  saw  the  expecting  raven  fly. 
Who  scarce  would  wait  tiU  both  should  die, 

Ere  his  repast  begun; 
He  flew,  and  perched,  then  flew  once  more, 
And  each  time  nearer  than  before; 
I  saw  his  wing  through  twilight  flit. 
And  once  so  near  me  he  alit 

I  could  have  smote,  but  lack'd  the  strength; 
But  the  slight  motion  of  my  hand. 
And  feeble  scratching  of  the  sand, 
The  exerted  throat's  faint  struggling  noise, 
Which  scarcely  could  be  call'd  a  voice, 

♦a a* 


S06  MAZEPPA. 

Together  scared  him  off  at  length. — 
I  know  no  more — my  latest  dream 
Is  something  of  a  lovely  star 
Which  fix'd  my  dull  eyes  from  afar, 
And  went  and  came  with  wandering  beam, 
And  of  the  cold,  dull,  swimming,  dense 
Sensation  of  recurring  sense. 
And  then  subsiding  back  to  death, 
And  then  again  a  little  breath, 
A  little  thrill,  a  short  suspense, 
An  icy  sickness  curdling  o'er 
My  heart,  and  sparks  that  cross'd  my  brain — 
A  gasp,  A  throb,  a  start  of  pain, 
A  sigh,  and  nothing  more. 


XIX. 

"  I  woke— Where  was  I? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me? 
And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie? 
And  is  it  mortal,  yon  bright  eye. 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance? 

I  close  my  own  again  once  more, 
As'doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  lon^-hair'd,  and  tall. 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught. 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free; 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be, — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released 
From  adding  to  the  vulture's  feast: 
And  when  the  Cossack  maid  behel(i 
My  heavy  eyes  at  length  unseal'd. 
She  smiled — and  I  essay'd  to  speak, 

But  fail'd — and  she  approach'd,  and  made 

With  lip  and  finger  signs  that  said, 
I  must  not  strive  as  yet  to  break 
The  silence,  till  my  strength  should  be 
Enough  to  leave  my  accents  free; 
And  then  her  hand  on  mine  she  laid, 
And  smooth'd  the  pillow  for  my  head. 
And  stole  along  on  tiptoe  tread, 

And  gently  oped  the  door,  and  spake 
In  whispers — ne'er  was  voice  so  sweet! 
Even  music  follow'd  her  light  feet;— 

But  those  she  call'd  were  not  awake. 
And  she  went  forth;  but  ere  she  pass'd. 
Another  look  on  me  she  cast. 

Another  sign  she  made,  to  say 


A 


MAZEPPA. 

That  I  had  nought  to  fear,  that  all 
Were  near,  at  my  command  or  call, 

And  she  would  not  delay 
Her  due  return: — while  she  was  gone, 
Methought  I  felt  too  much  alone. 


807 


"  She  came  with  mother  and  with  sire — 
What  need  of  more? — I  will  not  tire 
With  long  recital  of  the  rest 
Since  I  became  the  Cossack's  guest. 
They  found  me  senseless  on  the  plain — 

They  bore  me  to  the  nearest  hut — 
They  brought  me  into  life  again — 
Me — one  day  o'er  their  realm  to  reign! 

Thus  the  vain  fool  who  strove  to  glut 
His  rage,  refining  on  my  pain. 

Sent  me  forth  to  the  wilderness, 
Bound,  naked,  bleeding,  and  alone, 
To  pass  the  desert  to  a  throne, — 

What  mortal  his  own  doom  may  guess? — 

Let  none  despond,  let  none  despair! 
To-morrow  the  Borysthenes 
May  see  our  coursers  graze  at  ease 
Upon  his  Turkish  bank— and  never 
Had  I  such  welcome  for  a  river 

As  I  shall  yield  when  safely  there. 
Comrades,  good  night!" — The  Hetman  threw 

His  length  beneath  the  oak-tree  shade, 

With  leafy  couch  already  made, 
A  bed  nor  comfortless  nor  new 
To  him,  who  took  his  rest  whene'er 
The  hour  arrived,  no  matter  where: 

His  eyes  the  hastening  slumbers  steep. 
And  if  ye  marvel  Charles  forgot 
To  thank  his  tale,  he  wonder'd  not — 

The  king  had  been  an  hour  asleep. 


•* 


^h 


ih 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

18^1. 


"  'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." 

CAUPBKIiXfc 


DEDICATION. 


Lady!  if  for  the  cold  and  cloudy  clime, 

Where  I  was  born,  but  where  I  would  not  die, 

Of  the  great  Poet-Sire  of  Italy 
I  dare  to  build  the  imitative  rhyme, 
Harsh  Runic  copy  of  the  South's  sublime, 

Thou  art  the  cause;  and  howsoever  I 

Fall  short  of  his  immortal  harmony, 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  pardon  me  the  crime. 
Thou,  in  the  pride  of  Beauty  and  of  Youth, 

Spakest;  and  for  thee  to  speak  and  be  obey'd 
Are  one;  but  only  in  the  sunny  South 

Such  sounds  are  utter' d  and  such  charms  display 'd, 
So  sweet  a  language  from  so  fair  a  mouth — 

Ahl  to  what  effort  would  it  not  persuade? 
Ravenna,  June  21, 1819. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  course  of  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Ravenna  in  the  summer  of 
1819,  it  was  suggested  to  the  author  that,  having  composed  some- 
thing on  the  subject  of  Tasso's  confinement,  he  should  do  the  same 
on  Dante's  exile,— the  tomb  of  the  poet  forming  one  of  the  princi- 
pal objects  of  intei'est  in  that  city,  both  to  the  native  and  to  the 
stranger. 

"  On  this  hint  I  spake,"  and  the  result  has  been  the  following  four 
cantos,  in  terza  rima,  now  offered  to  the  reader.  If  they  are  under- 
stood and  aijproved,  it  is  my  purpose  to  continue  the  poem,  in  vari- 
ous other  cantos,  to  its  natural  conclusion  in  the  present  age.  The 
reader  is  to  suppose  that  Dante  addresses  him  in  the  interval  be- 
tween the  conclusion  of  the  Divina  Commedia  and  his  death,  and 
shortly  before  the  latter  event,  foretelling  the  fortunes  of  Italy  in 
general  in  the  ensuing  centuries.  In  adopting  this  plan  I  have  had 
in  my  mind  the  Cassandra  of  Lycophron,  and  .the  Prophecy  of 
Nereua  by  Horace,  as  well  as  the  Prophociea  of  Holy  Writ.    The 


^K 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


309 


measure  adopted  is  the  terza  rima  of  Dante,  which  I  am  not  aware 
to  have  seen  hitherto  tried  in  our  language,  except  it  may  be  by  Mr. 
Hayley,  of  whose  translation  I  never  saw  but  one  extract,  quoted  in 
the  notes  to  Caliph  Vathek;  so  that— if  I  do  not  err — this  poem  may 
be  considered  as  a  metrical  experiment.  The  cantos  are  short,  and 
about  the  same  length  of  those  of  the  poet,  whose  name  I  have  bor- 
rowed, and  most  probably  taken  in  vain. 

Amongst  the  inconveniences  of  authors  in  the  present  day,  it  is 
difficult  for  any  who  have  a  name,  good  or  bad,  to  escape  transla- 
tion. I  have  had  the  fortune  to  see  the  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe  Har- 
old "  translated  into  Italian  versi  sciolti,— that  is,  a  poem  written  iu 
the  Spenserean  stanza  into  blank  verse,  without  regard  to  the  nat- 
ural divisions  of  the  stanza  or  of  the  sense.  If  the  present  poem,  be- 
ing on  a  national  topic,  should  chance  to  undergo  the  same  fate,  I 
would  request  the  Italian  reader  to  remember  that  when  I  have  failed 
in  the  imitation  of  his  great  "Padre  Alighier,"  I  have  failed  in  imitat- 
ing that  which  all  study  and  few  understand,  since  to  this  very  day 
it  is  not  yet  settled  what  was  the  meaning  of  the  allegory  in  tho 
first  canto  of  the  Inferno,  unless  Count  Marchetti's  ingenious  and 
probable  conjecture  may  be  considered  as  having  decided  the  ques- 
tion. 

He  may  also  pardon  my  failure  the  more,  as  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  he  would  be  pleased  with  my  success,  ance  the  Italians,  with  a 
pardonable  nationality,  are  particularly  jealous  of  all  that  is  left 
them  as  a  nation— their  literature;  and  in  the  present  bitterness  of 
the  classic  and  romantic  war,  ai-e  but  ill  disposed  to  permit  a  for- 
eigner even  to  approve  or  imitate  them,  without  finding  some  fault 
with  his  ultramontane  presumption.  I  can  easily  enter  into  all  this, 
knowing  what  would  be  thought  in  England  of  an  Italian  imitator 
of  Milton,  or  if  a  translation  of  Monti,  or  Pindemonte,  or  Arici, 
should  be  held  up  to  the  rising  generation  as  a  model  for  their  fu- 
ture poetical  essays.  But  I  perceive  that  I  am  deviating  into  an  ad- 
dress to  the  Italian  reader,  when  my  business  is  with  the  English 
one;  and  be  they  few,  or  many,  I  must  take  my  leave  of  both. 


"Hf 


** 


THE  PROPHECY  OF   DANTE. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 

Once  more  in  man's  frail  world!  which  I  had  left 

So  long  that  'twas  forgotten;  and  I  feel 

The  weight  of  clay  again,— too  soon  bereft 
Of  the  immortal  vision  which  could  heal 

My  earthly  sorrows,  and  to  God's  own  skies 

Lift  me  from  that  deep  gulf  without  repeal, 
Where  late  my  ears  rung  with  the  damned  cries 

Of  souls  in  hopeless  bale;  and  from  that  place 

Of  lesser  torment,  whence  men  may  arise 
Pupe  from  the  fire  to  join  the  angelic  race; 

'Midst  whom  my  own  bright  Beatrice*  bless'd 

My  spirit  with  her  light;  and  to  the  base 
Of  the  eternal  TriadI  first,  last,  best. 

Mysterious,  three,  sole,  infinite,  great  God! 

Soul  universal!  led  the  mortal  guest, 
Unblastcd  by  the  glory,  though  he  trod 

From  star  to  star  to  reach  trie  almighty  throne. 

Oh  Beatricd!  whose  sweet  limbs  the  sod 
So  long  hath  press'd,  and  the  cold  marble  stone, 

Thou  sole  pure  seraph  of  my  earliest  love, 

Love  so  ineffable,  and  so  alone. 
That  nought  on  earth  could  more  my  bosom  move, 

And  meeting  thee  in  heaven  was  but  to  meet 

That  without  which  my  soul,  like  the  arkless  dove, 
Had  wander'd  still  in  search  of,  nor  her  feet 

Relieved  her  wing  till  found;  without  thy  light 

My  paradise  had  still  been  incomplete.t 
Since  my  tenth  sun  gave  summer  to  my  sight 

Thou  wert  my  life,  the  essence  of  my  thought, 

Loved  ere  I  knew  the  name  of  love,  and  bright 

•  The  reader  is  requested  to  adopt  tho  Italian  pronunciation  of 
Beatrice,  [Beatric7ie,]  sounding  all  the  syllables. 
t  "  Che  sol  per  io  belle  opre 

Che  faniio  in  Cielo  II  sole  e  1'  altro  stelle 
Dentro  di  lui,  si  crede  il  Puradiso, 
Cosi  se  Ruardi  flso 

Pensar  ben  ddi  ch'  ogni  terren  "  piacere. 
Canzone,  in  which  Dante  describes  the  pei*son  of  Beatrice,  Strophe 
third. 


Or 


^h 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  311 

Still  in  these  dim  old  eyes,  now  overwrought 

With  the  world's  war,  and  years,  and  banishment, 

And  tears  for  thee,  by  other  woes  untaught; 
For  mine  is  not  a  nature  to  be  bent 

By  tyrannous  faction,  and  the  brawling  crowd, 

And  though  the  long,  long  conflict  hath  been  spent 
In  vain,  and  never  more,  save  when  the  cloud 

Which  overhangs  the  Apennine,  my  mind's  eye 

Pierces  to  fancy  Florence,  once  so  proud 
Of  me,  can  I  return,  though  but  to  die. 

Unto  my  native  soil,  they  have  not  yet 

Quench'd  the  old  exile's  spirit,  stem  and  high. 
But  the  sun,  though  not  overcast,  must  set, 

And  the  night  cometh;  I  am  old  in  days. 

And  deeds,  and  contemplation,  and  have  met 
Destruction  face  to  face  in  all  his  ways. 

The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me,  pure, 

And  if  I  have  not  gather' d  yet  its  praise, 
I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure; 

Man  wrongs,  and  Time  avenges,  and  my  name 

May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure, 
Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  or  aim. 

To  add  to  the  vainglorious  list  of  those 

Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame. 
And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 

Their  sail,  and  deem  it  glory  to  be  class'd 

With  conquerors,  and  virtue's  other  foes, 
In  bloody  chronicles  of  a^es  past. 

I  would  have  had  my  Morence  great  and  free;* 

Oh  Florence!  Florence!  unto  me  thou  wact 
Like  that  Jerusalem  which  the  Almighty  He 

Wept  over,  "  but  thou  wouldst  not;"  as  the  bird 

Gathers  its  young,  I  would  have  gathe^'d  thee 
Beneath  a  parent  pinion,  hadst  thouhcard 

My  voice;  but  as  the  adder,  deaf  and  fierce. 

Against  the  breast  that  cherish'd  thee  was  stirr'd 
Thv  venom,  and  my  state  thou  didst  amerce. 

And  doom  this  body  forfeit  to  the  fire. 

Alas!  how  bitter  is  his  country's  curse 
To  him  who /or  that  country  would  expire. 

But  did  not  merit  to  expire  by  her. 

And  loves  her,  loves  her  even  in  her  ire! 
The  day  may  come  when  she  will  cease  to  err, 

The  day  may  come  she  would  be  proud  to  have 

The  dust  she  dooms  to  scatter,  and  transfer 
Of  him,  whom  she  denied  a  home,  the  grave. 

But  this  shall  not  be  granted;  let  my  dust 

Lie  where  it  falls;  nor  shall  the  soil  which  gave 
Me  breath,  but  in  her  sudden  fury  thrust 

Me  forth  to  breathe  elsewhere,  so  reassume 

*  "  L'Esilio  che  m'  d  dato  onor  mi  tegno. 

Cader  tra'  bouni  d  pur  di  lode  degno." 

Sonnet  of  Dante, 
in  which  he  represents  Right,  Generosity,  and  Temperance  as  ban- 
ished from  among  men,  and  seeking  refuge  from  Love,  who  in- 
habits his  bosom. 


313  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

My  indignant  bones,  because  her  angry  gust 
Forsooth  is  over,  and  repeal 'd  her  doom; 

No, — she  denied  me  what  was  mine — my  roof, 

And  shall  not  have  what  is  not  hers — my  tomb. 
Too  long  her  armed  wrath  hath  kept  aloof 

The  breast  which  would  have  bled  for  her,  the  heart 

That  beat,  the  mind  that  was  temptation-proof. 
The  man  who  fought,  toil'd,  travell'd,  and  each  part 

Of  a  true  citizen  fulfill' d,  and  saw 

For  his  reward,  the  Guelph's  ascendant  art 
Pass  his  destruction  even  into  a  law. 

These  things  are  not  made  for  forgetfulness, 

Florence  shall  be  forgotten  first;  too  raw 
The  wound,  too  deep  the  wrong,  and  the  distress 

Of  such  endurance  too  prolonged  to  make 

My  pardon  greater,  her  injustice  less, 
Though  late  repented;  yet— yet  for  her  sake 

I  feel  some  fonder  yearnings,  and  for  thine, 

My  own  Beatrice,  I  would  hardly  take 
Vengeance  upon  the  land  which  once  Avas  mine, 

And  still  is  hallow'd  by  thy  dust's  return. 

Which  would  protect  the  murderess  like  a  shrine, 
And  save  ten  thousand  foes  by  thy  sole  urn. 

Though,  like  old  Marius  from  Minturnae's  marsh 

And  Carthage  ruins,  my  lone  breast  may  burn 
At  times  with  evil  feelings  hot  and  harsh. 

And  sometimes  the  last  pangs  of  a  vile  foe 

Writhe  in  a  dream  before  me,  and  o'erarch 
My  brow  with  hopes  of  triumph, — let  them  gol 

Such  are  the  last  infirmities  of  those 

Who  lon^  have  suffer' d  more  than  mortal  woe. 
And  yet  bemg  mortal  still  have  no  repose 

But  on  the  pillow  of  Revenge — Revenge, 

Who  sleeps  to  dream  of  blood,  and  waking  glows 
With  the  oft-baffled  slakeless  thirst  of  change. 

When  we  shall  mount  again,  and  they  that  trod 

Be  trampled  on,  while  Death  and  Ate  range 
O'er  humbled  heads  and  sever'd  necks Great  God! 

Take  these  thoughts  from  me — to  thy  hands  I  yield 

My  many  wrongs,  and  thine  almighty  rod 
Will  fall  on  those  who  smote  rae,— be  my  shieldl 

As  thou  hast  been  in  peril,  and  in  pain. 

In  turbulent  cities,  and  the  tented  field — 
In  toil,  and  many  troubles  borne  in  vain 

For  Florence. — I  appeal  from  her  to  Thee! 

Thee  whom  I  late  saw  in  thy  loftiest  reign, 
Even  in  that  glorious  vision,  which  to  see 

And  live  was  never  granted  luitil  now, 

And  yet  thou  hast  permitted  this  to  me. 
Alas!  with  what  a  weight  upon  my  brow 

The  sense  of  earth  and  earthly  things  come  back, 

Corrosive  passions,  feelings  dull  aiul  low. 
The  heart's  quick  throb  upon  the  nient:il  rack, 

Long  day,  and  dreary  night;  the  retronpeet 

Of  half  a  century  bloody  and  black, 
And  the  frail  few  years  I  may  yet  expect 

Hoary  and  h()i)ele88,  but  less  hard  to  bear, 

* '■ ** 


^h 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  313 

For  I  have  been  too  long  and  deeply  wreck'd 
On  the  lone  rock  of  desolate  Despair, 

To  lift  my  eyes  more  to  the  passing  sail 

Which  shuns  that  reef  so  horrible  and  bare; 
Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wail? 

I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age, 

And  yet  ray  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale 
Which  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a  page 

Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract 

An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage, 
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act 

Worthless  as  they  who  WTOUght  it:  'tis  the  doom 

Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd 
In  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume 

Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone; 

Then  future  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb, 
And  pilgrims  come  from  climes  where  they  have  known 

The  name  of  him — ^who  now  is  but  a  name. 

And  wasting  homage  o'er  the  sullen  stone. 
Spread  his— by  him  unheard,  unheeded — fame; 

And  mine  at  least  hath  cost  me  dear:  to  die 

Is  nothing;  but  to  wither  thus — to  tame 
My  mind  down  from  its  own  infinity — 

To  live  in  narrow  ways  with  little  men, 

A  common  sight  to  every  common  eye, 
A  wanderer,  while  even  wolves  can  find  a  den, 

Ripp'd  from  all  kindred,  from  all  home,  all  things 

That  make  communion  sweet,  and  soften  pain — 
To  feel  me  in  the  solitude  of  kings 

Without  the  power  that  makes  them  bear  a  crown — 

To  envy  every  dove  his  nest  and  wings 
Which  waft  him  where  the  Apennine  looks  down 

On  Amo,  till  he  perches,  it  may  be, 

Within  my  all  inexorable  town, 
Where  yet  my  boys  are,  and  that  fatal  she,* 

Their  mother,  the  cold  partner  who  hath  brought 

Destruction  for  a  dowry — this  to  see 

*  This  lady,  whose  name  was  Gemma,  sprung  from  one  of  the 
most  powerful  Guelph  families  named  Donati.  Corso  Doiiati  was 
the  principal  adversary  of  the  Ghibellines.  She  is  described  as  being 
*^Aanioduin  morosa,  ut  de  Xantippe  Socratis  philosophi  conjuge 
scriptum  esse  legimus,''''  according  to  Giannozzo  Manetti.  But  Lion- 
ardo  Aretino  is  scandalized  with  Boccace,  in  his  Life  of  Dante,  for 
saying  that  literary  men  should  not  marry.  "  Qui  il  Boccaccio  non 
ha  pazienza,  e  dice,  le  mogli  esser  contrarie  agli  studj :  e  non  si 
ricorda  che  Socrate  il  piu  nobile  filosofo  che  mai  fosse,  ebbe  moglie 
e  flgliuoli  e  ufflci  della  Kepubblica  nella  sua  Citta;  e  Aristotele  che, 
&e.,  &c.,  ebbe  due  mogli  in  varj  tempi,  ed  ebbe  flgliuoli,  e  ricchezze 
assai.— E  Marco  Tullio— e  Catone — e  Varrone— e  Seneca— ebbero 
mo;,'lie,"  &c.,&c.  It  is  odd  that  honest  Lionardo's  examples,  with 
the  exception  of  Seneca,  and,  for  anything  I  Icnow,  Aristotle,  are 
not  the  most  felicitous.  TuUy's  Terentia,  and  Socrates'  Xantippe, 
by  no  means  contributed  to  their  husbands'  happiness,  whatever 
they  might  do  to  tiieir  philosophy;  Cato  gave  away  hia  wife;  of 
Varro's  we  know  nothing;  and  of  Seneca's,  only  that  she  was  dis- 
posed to  die  with  him,  but  recovered  and  lived  several  years  after- 
wards. But  says  Lionardo,  "  L'uomo  d  animale  civile,  secondo  piace 
a  tutti  i  filosofi."  And  thence  concludes  that  the  greatest  proof  o£ 
the  am  mars  civism  is  "la  prima  congiunzione,  dalla  quale  multipli- 
cata  nasce  la  Citta," 


^t 


«* 


4f- 


4k 


814  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

And  feel,  and  know  without  repair,  hath  taught 
A  bitter  lesson;  but  it  leaves  me  free: 
I  have  not  vilely  found,  nor  basely  sought, 

They  made  an  Exile — ^not  a  slave  of  me. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 

The  Spirit  of  the  fervent  days  of  Old, 

When  words  were  things  that  came  to  pasi^  and  thought 

Flash'd  o'er  the  future,  bidding  men  behold 
Their  children's  children's  doom  already  brought 

Forth  from  the  abyss  of  time  which  is  to  be, 

The  chaos  of  events,  where  lie  half-wrought 
Shapes  that  must  undergo  mortality; 

What  the  great  Seers  of  Israel  wore  within, 

That  spirit  was  on  them,  and  is  on  me; 
And  if,  Cassandra-like,  amidst  the  din 

Of  conflict  none  will  hear,  or  hearing  heed 

This  voice  from  out  the  Wilderness,  the  sin 
Be  theirs,  and  my  own  feelings  be  my  meed, 

The  only  guerdon  I  have  ever  known. 

Hast  thou  not  bled?  and  hast  thou  still  to  bleed, 
Italia?    Ah!  to  me  such  things  foreshown 

With  dim  sepulchral  light,  bid  me  forget 

In  thine  irreparable  wrongs  my  own; 
We  can  have  but  one  country,  and  even  yet 

Thou'rt  mine — my  bones  shall  be  within  thy  breast, 

My  soul  within  thy  language,  which  once  set 
With  our  old  Roman  sway  in  the  wide  West; 

But  I  will  make  another  tongue  arise 

As  lofty  and  more  sweet,  in  which  expressed 
The  hero's  ardor,  or  the  lover's  sighs, 

Shall  find  alike  such  sounds  for  every  theme. 

That  every  word,  as  brilliant  as  thy  skies, 
Shall  realize  a  poet's  proudest  dream, 

And  make  thee  Europe's  nightingale  of  song; 

So  that  all  present  speech  to  thine  shall  seem 
The  note  of  meaner  birds,  and  every  tongue 

Confess  its  barbarism  when  compared  with  thine. 

This  Shalt  thou  owe  to  him  thou  didst  so  wrong, 
Thy  Tuscan  bard,  the  bauish'd  Ghibelline. 

Woe!  woe!  the  veil  of  coming  centuries 

Is  rent, — a  thousand  years  which  yet  supine 
Lie  like  the  ocean  waves  ere  winds  arise, 

Heaving  in  dark  and  siillou  uiululation. 

Float  from  eternity  into  these  eyes; 
The  storms  yet  sleep,  the  clouds  still  keep  their  station. 

The  unborn  earthquake  yet  is  in  the  womb. 

The  bloody  chaos  yet  expects  creation. 
But  all  things  are  disposing  for  thy  doom; 

The  elements  await  but  for  the  word, 

"  Let  there  be  darkness!"  and  thou  grow'st  a  tomb! 
Yesl  thou,  so  beautiful,  shalt  feel  the  sword, 

Thou,  Italy!  so  fair  that  Paradise, 

Revived  In  thee,  blooms  forth  to  man  restored: 


■if- 


-JH- 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 


815 


Ah!  must  the  sons  of  Adam  lose  it  twice? 
Thou,  Italy!  whose  ever-golden  fields, 
Plough'd  by  the  sunbeams  solely,  would  suffice 

For  the  world's  granary;  thou,  whose  sky  heaven  gilds 
With  brighter  stars,  and  robes  with  deeper  blue; 
Thou,  in  whose  pleasant  places  Summer  builds 

Her  palace,  in  whose  cradle  Empire  grew, 
And  form'd  the  Eternal  City's  ornaments 
From  spoils  of  kings  whom  freemen  overthrew: 

Birthplace  of  heroes,  sanctuary  of  saints. 
Where  earthly  first,  then  heavenly  glory  made 
Her  home;  thou,  all  which  fondest  fancy  paints, 

And  finds  her  prior  vision  but  portray'd 
In  feeble  colors,  when  the  eye— from  the  Alp 
Of  horrid  snow,  and  rock,  and  shaggy  shade 

Of  desert-loving  pine,  whose  emerald  scalp 
Nods  to  the  storm— dilates  and  dotes  o'er  thee, 
And  wistfully  implores,  as  'twere  for  help 

To  see  thy  sunny  fields,  my  Italy, 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet,  and  dearer  still 
The  more  approach 'd,  and  dearest  were  they  free. 

Thou — thou  must  wither  to  each  tyrant's  will: 
The  Goth  hath  been,— the  German,  Frank,  and  Hun 
Are  yet  to  come, — and  on  the  imperial  hill 

Rain,  already  proad  of  the  deeds  done 
By  the  old  barbarians,  there  awaits  the  new, 
Throned  on  the  Palatine,  while  lost  and  won 

Rome  at  her  feet  lies  bleeding;  and  the  hue 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  Roman  slaughter 
Troubles  the  clotted  air,  of  late  so  blue, 

And  deepens  into  red  the  saffron  water 
Of  Tiber,  thick  with  dead;  the  helpless  priest. 
And  still  more  helpless  nor  less  holy  daughter, 

Vow'd  to  their  God,  have  shrieking  fled,  and  ceased 
Their  ministry;  the*  nations  take  their  prey. 
Iberian,  Almain,  Lombard,  and  the  beast 

And  bird,  wolf,  vulture,  more  humane  than  they 
Are;  these  but  gorge  the  flesh  and  lap  the  gore 
Of  the  departed,  and  then  go  their  way; 

But  those,  the  human  savages,  explore 
All  paths  of  torture,  and  insatiate  yet, 
With  Ugolino  hunger  prowl  for  more. 

Nine  moons  shall  rise  o'er  scenes  like  this  and  set;* 
The  chiefless  army  of  the  dead,  which  late 
Beneath  the  traitor  Prince's  banner  met. 

Hath  left  its  leader's  ashes  at  the  gate; 
Had  but  the  royal  Rebel  lived,  perchance 
Thou  hadst  been  spared,  but  his  involved  thy  fate. 

Oh!  Rome,  the  spoiler  of  the  spoil  of  France, 
From  Brennus  to  the  Bourbon,  never,  never 
Shall  foreign  standard  to  thy  walls  advance 

But  Tiber  shall  become  a  mournful  river. 
Oh!  when  the  strangers  pass  the  Alps  and  Po, 
Crush  them,  ye  rocks!  floods  whelm  them,  and  for  ever! 


•See  "Sacco  di  Roma,"  generally  attributed  to   Guicciardini. 
There  is  another  written  by  a  Jacopo  Buonaparte. 


-ih 


316  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

Why  sleep  the  idle  avalanches  so, 
To  topple  on  the  lonely  pilgrim's  head? 
Why  doth  Eridanus  but  overflow 

The  peasant's  harvest  from  his  turbid  bed? 
Were  not  each  barbarous  horde  a  nobler  prey? 
Over  Cambyses'  host  the  deseit  spread 

Her  sandy  ocean,  and  the  sea-waves  sway 
Roll'd  over  Pharaoh  and  his  thousands, — why, 
Mountains  and  waters,  do  ye  not  as  they? 

And  you,  ye  men!  Romans  who  dare  not  die, 
Sons  of  the  conquerors  who  overthrew 
Those  who  o'erthrew  proud  Xerxes,  where  yet  lie 

The  dead  whose  tomb  Oblivion  never  knew, 
Are  the  Alps  weaker  than  Thermopylae? 
Their  passes  more  alluring  to  the  view 

Of  an  invader?  is  it  they,  or  ye. 
That  to  each  host  the  mountain-gate  unbar, 
And  leave  the  march  in  peace,  the  passage  free? 

Why,  Nature's  self  detains  the  victor's  car. 
And  makes  your  land  impregnable,  if  earth 
Could  be  so;  but  alone  she  will  not  war, 

Yet  aids  the  warrior  worthy  of  his  birth 
In  a  soil  where  the  mothers  bring  forth  men: 
Not  so  with  those  whose  souls  are  little  worth; 

For  them  no  fortress  can  avail,— the  den 
Of  the  poor  reptile  which  preserve^ts  sting 
Is  more  secure  than  walls  of  adamant,  when 

The  hearts  of  those  within  are  quivering. 
Are  xe  not  brave?    Yes,  yet  the  Ausonian  soil 
Hath  hearts,  and  hands,  and  arms,  and  hosts  to  bring 

Against  Oppression;  but  how  vain  the  toil, 
While  still  Division  sows  the  seeds  of  woe 
And  weakness,  till  the  stranger  reaps  the  spoil. 

Oh!  my  own  beauteous  land!  so  long  laid  low. 
So  long  the  grave  of  thy  own  children's  hopes. 
When  there  is  but  required  a  single  blow 

To  break  the  chain,  yet — j'^et  the  Avenger  stops. 
And  Doubt  and  Discord  step  'twixt  thine  and  thee. 
And  join  their  strength  to  that  which  with  thee  copes; 

What  is  there  wanting  then  to  set  thee  free, 
And  show  thy  beauty  in  its  fullest  light? 
To  make  the  Alps  impassable;  and  we, 

Her  sons,  may  do  this  with  (/ne  deed— Unite. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 

From  out  the  mass  of  nevcr-djing  ill. 
The  Plague,  the  Prince,  the  Stranger,  and  the  Sword, 
Vial   of  wrath  but  emptied  to  refill 

And  flow  again,  I  cannot  all  record 
That  crowds  on  my  prophetic  eye:  the  earth 
And  ocean  written  o'er  would  not  afford 

Space  for  the  annal,  yet  it  shall  go  forth; 
Yes,  all,  though  not  by  human  pen,  is  graven, 
There  where  the  farthest  suns  and  stars  have  birth. 


^K 


*JI- 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  817 

Spread  like  a  banner  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

The  bloody  scroll  of  our  millennial  wrongs 

Waves,  and  the  echo  of  our  groans  is  driven 
Athwart  the  sound  of  archangelic  songs, 

And  Italy,  the  martyr' d  nation's  gore, 

Will  not  in  vain  arise  to  where  belongs 
Omnipotence  and  mercy  evermore: 

Like  to  a  harp-string  stricken  by  the  wind, 

The  sound  of  her  lament  shall,  rising  o'er 
The  seraph  voices,  touch  the  Almighty  Mind. 

Meantime  I,  humblest  of  thy  sons,  and  of 

Earth's  dust  by  immortality  refined  ^ 

To  sense  and  suif ering,  though  the  vain  may  scoff. 

And  tyrants  threat,  and  meeker  victims  bow 

Before  the  storm  because  its  breath  is  rough, 
To  thee,  my  country!  whom  before,  as  now,' 

I  loved  and  love,  devote  the  mournful  lyre 

And  melancholy  gift  high  powers  allow 
To  read  the  future;  and  if  now  my  fire 

Is  not  as  once  it  shone  o'er  thee,  forgive! 

I  but  foretell  thy  fortunes — then  expire; 
Think  not  that  I  would  look  on  them  and  live. 

A  spirit  forces  me  to  see  and  speak, 

And  for  my  guerdon  grants  7hot  to  survive; 
My  heart  shall  be  pour'd  over  thee  and  break: 

Yet  for  a  moment,  ere  I  must  resume 

Thy  sable  web  of  sorrow,  let  me  take 
Over  the  gleams  that  flash  athwart  thy  gloom 

A  softer  glimpse;  some  stars  shine  through  thy  night, 

And  many  meteors,  and  above  thy  tomb 
Leans  sculptured  Beauty,  which  Death  cannot  blight; 

And  from  thine  ashes  boundless  spirits  rise 

To  give  thee  honor  and  the  earth  delight; 
Thy  soil  shall  still  be  pregnant  with  the  wise. 

The  gay,  the  learn'd,  the  generous,  and  the  brave, 

Native  to  thee  as  summer  to  thy  skies. 
Conquerors  on  foreign  shores,  and  the  far  wave,* 

Discoverers  of  new  worlds,  which  take  their  name;t 

For  thee  alone  they  have  no  arm  to  save, 
And  all  thy  recompense  is  in  their  fame, 

A  noble  one  to  them,  but  not  to  thee — 

Shall  they  be  glorious,  and  thou  still  the  same? 
Oh!  more  than  these  illustrious  far  shall  be 

The  being— and  even  yet  he  may  be  bom — 

The  mortal  saviour  who  shall  set  thee  free, 
And  see  thy  diadem,  so  changed  and  worn 

By  fresh  barbarians,  on  thy  brow  replaced; 

And  the  sweet  sun  replenishing  thy  mom. 
Thy  moral  mom,  too  long  with  clouds  defaced, 

And  noxious  vapors  from  Avemus  risen, 

Such  as  all  they  must  breathe  who  are  debased 
By  servitude,  and  have  the  mind  in  prison. 

Yet  through  this  centuried  eclipse  of  woe 


*ik 


*  Alexander  of  Parma,  Spinola,  Pescara,  Eugene  of  Savoy,  Mon- 
tecucco. 
t  Columbus,  Americus  Vespucius,  Sebastian  Cabot. 


^H- 


nt 


Jk 


318  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

>i 

Some  voices  shall  be  heard,  and  earth  shall  listen; 
Poets  shall  follow  in  the  path  I  show, 

And  make  it  broader:  the  same  brilliant  sky 

Which  cheers  the  birds  to  song  shall  bid  them  glow. 
And  raise  their  notes  as  natural  and  high; 

Tuneful  shall  be  their  numbers;  they  shall  sing 

Many  of  love,  and  some  of  liberty, 
But  few  shall  soar  upon  that  eagle's  wing, 

And  look  in  the  sun's  face  with  eagle's  gaze, 

All  free  and  fearless  as  the  feather'd  king. 
But  fly  more  near  the  earth;  how  many  a  phrase 

Sublime  shall  lavish'd  be  on  some  small  prince 

In  all  the  prodigality  of  praise! 
And  language,  eloquently  false,  evince 

The  harlotry  of  genius,  which,  like  beauty, 

Too  oft  forgets  its  own  self-reverence, 
And  looks  on  prostitution  as  a  duty. 

He  who  once  enters  in  a  tj'rant's  hall* 

As  guest  is  slave,  his  thoughts  become  a  booty. 
And  the  first  day  which  sees  the  chains  enthrall 

A  captive,  sees  his  half  of  manhood  gone— t 

The  soul's  emasculation  saddens  all 
His  spirit;  thus  the  Bard  too  near  the  throne 

Quails  from  his  inspiration,  bound  io please, — 

How  servile  is  the  task  to  please  alone! 
To  smooth  the  verse  to  suit  his  sovereign's  ease 

And  royal  leisure,  nor  too  much  prolong 

Aught  save  his  eulogy,  and  find,  and  seize, 
Or  force,  or  forge  fit  argument  of  song! 

Thus  trammell'd,  thus  condemn'd  to  Flattery's  trebles, 

He  toils  through  all,  still  trembling  to  be  wrong: 
For  fear  some  noble  thoughts  like  heavenly  rebels, 

Should  rise  up  in  high  treason  to  his  brain. 

He  sings  as  the  Athenian  spoke,  with  pebbles 
In  's  mouth,  lest  truth  should  stammer  through  his  strain. 

But  out  of  the  long  file  of  sonneteers 

There  shall  be  some  who  will  not  sing  in  vain, 
And  he,  their  prince,  shall  rank  among  my  peerSjJ 

And  love  shall  be  his  torment;  but  his  grief 

Shall  make  an  immortality  of  tears, 
And  Italy  shall  hail  him  as  the  Chief 

Of  Poet-lovers,  and  his  higher  song 

Of  Freedom  wreathe  him  with  as  green  a  leaf. 
But  in  a  farther  age  shall  rise  along 

The  banks  of  Po  two  greater  still  than  he; 

The  world  which  smiled  on  him  shall  do  them  wrong 
Till  they  are  ashes,  and  repose  with  me. 

The  first  will  make  an  epoch  of  his  lyre. 

And  fill  the  earth  with  feats  of  chivalry: 
His  fancy  like  a  rainbow,  and  his  fire. 

Like  that  of  Heaven,  immortal,  and  his  thought    * 

Borne  onward  with  a  wing  that  cannot  tire: 

♦  A  verse  from  the  Greek  tragedians,  with  which  Pompey  took 
leave  of  Cornelia  on  enterinK  the  boat  in  which  he  was  slain. 
t  The  verse  and  sentiment  are  taken  from  Homer. 
X  Petrarch. 


^^ 


u 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  319 

Pleasure  shall,  like  a  butterfly  new  caught, 
Flutter  her  lovely  pinions  o'er  his  theme, 
And  Art  itself  seem  into  Nature  wrought 
By  the  transparency  of  his  bright  dream. — 
The  second,  of  a  tenderer,  sadder  mood, 
Shall  pour  his  soul  out  o'er  Jerusalem; 
He,  too,  shall  sing  of  arms,  and  Christian  blood 
Shed  where  Christ  bled  for  man;  and  his  high  harp 
Shall,  by  the  willow  over  Jordan's  flood, 
Revive  a  song  of  Sion,  and  the  sharp 
Conflict,  and  final  triumph  of  the  brave 
And  pious,  and  the  strife  of  hell  to  warp 
Their  harps  from  their  great  purpose,  until  wave 
The  red-cross  banners  where  the  first  red  Cross 
Was  crimson'd  from  his  veins  who  died  to  save, 
Shall  be  his  sacred  argument;  the  loss 
Of  years,  of  favor,  freedom,  even  of  fame 
Contested  for  a  time,  while  the  smooth  gloss 
Of  courts  would  slide  o'er  his  forgotten  name. 
And  call  captivity  a  kindness,  meant 
To  shield  him  from  insanity  or  shame: 
Such  shall  be  his  meet  guerdon!  who  was  sent 
To  be  Christ's  Laureate — they  reward  him  well! 
Florence  dooms  me  but  death  or  banishment, 
Ferrara  him  a  pittance  and  a  cell. 
Harder  to  bear,  and  less  deserved,  for  I 
Had  stung  the  factions  which  I  strove  to  quell; 
But  this  meek  man,  who  with  a  lover's  eye 
Will  look  on  earth  and  heaven,  and  who  will  deign 
To  embalm  with  his  celestial  flattery, 
Aspoor  a  thing  as  e'er  was  spawn'd  to  reign, 
What  will  7ie  do  to  merit  such  a  doom? 
Perhaps  he'll  love, — and  is  not  love  in  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb? 
Yet  it  will  be  so — ^he  and  his  compeer, 
The  Bard  of  Chivalry,  will  both  consume  ' 

In  penury  and  pain  too  many  a  year. 
And,  dying  in  despondency,  bequeath 
To  the  kind  world,  which  scarce  will  yield  a  tear, 
A  heritage  enriching  all  who  breathe 
With  the  wealth  of  a  genuine  poet's  soul, 
And  to  their  country  a  redoubled  wreath, 
Unmatch'd  by  time;  not  Hellas  can  unroll 
Through  her  olympiads  two  such  names,  though  one 
Of  hers  be  mighty, — and  is  this  the  whole 
Of  such  men's  destiny  beneath  the  sun? 
Must  all  the  finer  thoughts,  the  thrilling  sense. 
The  electric  blood  with  which  their  arteries  run, 
Their  body's  self  turn'd  soul  with  the  intense 
Feeling  of  that  which  is,  and  fancy  of 
That  which  should  be,  to  such  a  recompense 
Conduct?  shall  their  bright  plumage  on  the  rough 
Storm  be  still  scattered?    Yes,  and  it  must  be. 
For,  form'd  of  far  too  penetrable  stuff. 
These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion,  soon  they  find 
Earth's  mist  with  their  pure  pinions  not  agree. 


♦it 


^t* 


^t 


330  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

And  die  or  are  degraded;  for  the  mind 
Succumbs  to  long  infection,  and  despair, 
And  vulture  passions  flying  close  behind, 

Await  the  moment  to  assail  and  tear; 
And  when  at  length  the  winged  wanderers  stoop. 
Then  is  the  prey-bird's  triumph,  then  they  share 

The  spoil,  o'erpower'd  at  length  by  one  fell  swoop. 
Yet  some  have  been  untouched,  who  leam'd  to  bear, 
Some  whom  no  power  could  ever  force  to  droop,  • 

Who  could  resist  themselves  even,  hardest  earel 
And  task  most  hopeless;   but  some  such  have  been. 
And  if  my  name  amongst  the  number  were, 

That  destiny  austere,  and  yet  serene. 
Were  prouder  than  more  dazzling  fame  unbless'd. 
The  Alp's  snow  summit  nearer  heaven  is  seen 

Than  the  volcano's  fierce  eruptive  crest. 
Whose  splendor  from  the  black  abyss  is  flung. 
While  the  scorched  mountain,  from  whose  burning  breast 

A  temporary  torturing  flame  is  wrung, 
Shines  for  a  night  of  terror,  then  repels 
Its  fire  back  to  the  hell  from  whence  it  sprung. 

The  hell  which  ia  its  entrails  ever  dwells. 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 

Many  ar6  poets  who  have  never  penn'd 
Their  inspiration,  and  perchance  the  best: 
They  felt,  and  loved,  and  died,  but  would  not  lend 

Their  thoughts  to  meaner  beings;  they  compress'd 
The  god  within  them,  and  rejoin 'd  the  stars 
Unlaurell'd  upon  earth,  but  far  more  bless'd 

Than  those  who  are  degraded  by  the  jars 
Of  passion,  and  their  frailties  link'd  to  fame, 
CoaQ[ueror8  of  high  renown,  but  full  of  scars. 

Many  are  poets  but  without  the  name. 
For  what  is  poesy  but  to  create 
From  overfeeling  good  or  ill;  and  aim 

At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate, 
And  be  the  new  Prometheus  of  new  men, 
Bestowing  fire  from  heaven,  and  then,  too  late. 

Finding  the  pleasure  givon  repaid  with  pain, 
And  vultures  to  the  heart  or  the  bestower. 
Who,  having  lavish'd  his  high  gift  in  vain. 

Lies  chain'd  to  his  lono  rock  by  tue  sea-shore? 
So  be  it:  we  can  bear. — But  thus  all  they 
AVhose  intellect  is  an  o'crmastcring  power 

Which  still  recoils  from  its  encumbering  clay 
Or  lightens  it  to  spirit,  whatsoe'er 
The  form  which  their  creations  may  essay. 

Are  bards;  the  kindled  marble's  bust  may  wear 
More  poesy  upon  its  speaking  brow 
Than  aught  less  than  the  Homeric  page  may  bear; 

One  noble  stroke  with  a  whole  life  may  glow, 
Or  deify  the  canvas  till  it  shine 
With  iVoauty  so  surpassing  all  below. 

That  they  who  kneel  to  idols  so  divine 


^f- 


"Or 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

Break  no  commandment,  for  high  heaven  is  there 
Transfused,  transfigurated:  and  the  line 

Of  poesy,  which  peoples  but  the  air 
With  thought  and  beings  of  our  thought  reflected, 
Can  do  no  more:   then  let  the  artist  share 

The  palm,  he  shares  the  peril,  and  dejected 
Faints  o'er  the  labor  unapproved — Alas! 
Despair  and  Genius  are  too  oft  connected. 

Within  the  ages  which  before  me  pass 
Art  shall  resume  and  equal  even  the  sway 
Which  with  Apelles  and  old  Phidias 

She  held  in  Hellas'  unforgotten  day. 
Ye  shall  be  taught  by  Ruin  to  revive 
The  Grecian  forms  at  least  from  their  decay, 

And  Roman  souls  at  last  again  shall  live 
In  Roman  works  wrought  by  Italian  hands, 
And  temples,  loftier  than  the  old  temples,  give 

New  wonders  to  the  world;  and  while  still  stands 
The  austere  Pantheon,  into  heaven  shall  soar 
A  dome,  its  image,  while  the  base  expands* 

Into  a  fane  surpassing  all  before, 
Such  as  all  flesh  shall  flock  to  kneel  In:  ne'er 
Such  sight  hath  been  unfolded  by  a  door 

As  this,  to  which  all  nations  shall  repair 
And  lay  their  sins  at  this  huge  gate  of  heaven. 
And  the  bold  Architect  unto  whose  care 

The  daring  charge  to  raise  it  shall  be  given, 
Whom  all  hearts  shall  acknowledge  as  their  lord, 
Whe'ther  into  the  marble  chaos  driven 

His  chisel  bid  the  Hebrew,  at  whose  wordt 
Israel  left  Egypt,  stop  the  waves  in  stone, 
Or  hues  of  Hell  be  by  his  pencil  pour'd 

Over  the  damn'd  before  the  Judgment-throne,t 
Such  as  I  saw  them,  such  as  all  shall  see. 
Or  fanes  be  built  of  grandeur  yet  unknown. 

The  stream  of  his  great  thoughts  shall  spring  from  me, 

*  The  Cupola  of  St.  Peter's. 

t  The  statue  of  Moses  on  the  monument  of  Julius  II. 


321 


*it 


SONETTO. 
DC  Giovanni  Battista  Zappi. 

Chi  6  costui,  che  in  dura  pietra  scolto, 
Siede  ffigante;  e  le  piil  illustre,  e  conte 
Opre  lieir  arte  avvanza,  e  ha  vive,  e  pronte 
Le  labbia  si,  che  le  parole  ascolto? 

Quest'  6  MosS;  ben  me  'I  diceva  11  folto 
Onor  del  mento,  e  '1  doppio  raggio  in  fronte, 
Quest'  e  Mos6,  quando  seendea  del  monte, 
E  gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  volte. 

Tal  era  allor,  che  le  sonanti,  e  vaste 
Acque  ei  sospese  a  se  d'  intorno,  e  tale 
Quando  il  mar  chiuse,  e  ne  f  6  tomba  altrui. 
E  vol  sue  turbe  un  rio  vitello  alzaste? 
Alzata  aveste  imago  a  questa  egualel 
Ch'  era  men  fallo  1'  adorer  costui. 

t  The  Last  Judgment,  in  the  Sistine  Chapel. 

§  I  have  read  somewhere  (if  I  do  not  err,  for  I  cannot  recollect 


a- 


^J- 


323  THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE. 

The  Ghibelline,  who  traversed  the  three  reahns 
Which  form  the  empire  of  eternity. 

Amidst  the  clash  of  swords,  and  clang  of  helms, 
The  age  which  I  anticipate,  no  less 
Shall  be  the  A^e  of  Beauty,  and  while  whelms 

Calamity  the  nations  with  distress, 
The  genius  of  my  country  shall  arise, 
The  Cedar  towering  o'er  the  Wilderness,, 

Lovely  in  all  its  branches  to  all  eyes. 
Fragrant  as  fair,  and  recognized  afar, 
Wafting  its  native  incense  through  the  skies. 

Sovereigns  shall  pause  amidst  their  sport  of  war, 
Wean'd  for  an  hour  from  blood,  to  turn  and  gaze 
On  canvas  or  on  stone;  and  they  who  mar 

All  beauty  upon  earth,  compell'd  to  praise. 
Shall  feel  the  power  of  that  which  they  destroy; 
And  Art's  mistaken  gratitude  shall  raise 

To  tyrants  who  but  take  her  for  a  toy. 
Emblems  and  monuments,  and  prostitute 
Her  charms  to  pontiffs  proud,*  who  but  employ 

The  man  of  genius  as  the  meanest  brute 
To  bear  a  burden,  and  to  serve  a  need. 
To  sell  his  labors,  and  his  soul  to  boot. 

Who  toils  for  nations  may  be  poor  indeed. 
But  free;  who  sweats  for  monarchs  is  no  more 
Than  the  gilt  chamberlain,  who,  clothed  and  fee'd. 

Stands  sleek  and  slavish,  bowing  at  his  door. 
Oh,  Power  that  rulest  and  inspirest!  how 
Is  it  that  they  on  earth,  whose  earthly  power 

Is  likest  thine  in  heaven  in  outward  show. 

Least  like  to  thee  in  attributes  divine, 
Tread  on  the  universal  necks  that  bow. 

And  then  assure  us  that  their  rights  are  thine? 
And  how  is  it  that  they,  the  sons  of  fame. 
Whose  inspiration  seems  to  them  to  shine 

From  high,  they  whom  the  nations  oftest  name. 
Must  pass  their  days  in  penury  or  pain. 
Or  step  to  grandeur  through  the  paths  of  shame, 

And  wear  a  deeper  brand  and  gaudier  chain? 
Or  if  their  destiny  be  bom  aloof 
From  lowliness,  or  tempted  thence  in  vain. 

In  their  own  souls  sustain  a  harder  proof. 
The  inner  war  of  passions  deep  and  fierce? 
Florence!  when  thy  harsh  sentence  razed  my  roof, 

I  loved  thee,  but  the  vengeance  of  my  verse. 
The  hate  of  injuries  which  every  year 
Makes  greater,  and  accumulates  my  curse. 

Shall  live,  outliving  all  thou  boldest  dear. 
Thy  pride,  thy  wealth,  thy  freedom,  and  even  that, 
The  most  infernal  of  all  evils  here, 
The  sway  of  petty  tyrants  in  a  state; 
For  such  sway  is  not  limited  to  kings, 

where),  that  Dante  was  so  great  a  favorite  of  Michael  Angelo's,  that 
he  had  desiprneil  the  whole  of  the  Divina  Commedia;  but  that  the 
volume  containing  thes»^  studies  was  lost  by  sea. 

*  See  the  treatment  of  Michael  Angelo  by  Julius  II.,  and  his  neirlect 
by  Leo  X. 


^i- 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  DANTE.  323 

And  demagogues  yield  to  them  but  in  date, 
As  swept  off  sooner;  in  all  deadly  tilings, 

Whicii  make  men  hate  themselves,  and  one  another, 

In  discord,  cowardice,  cruelty,  all  that  springs 
From  Death  the  Sin-born's  incest  with  his  mother, 

In  rank  oppression  in  its  rudest  shape, 

The  faction  Chief  is  but  the  Sultan's  brother, 
And  the  worst  despot's  far  less  human  ape: 

Florence!  when  this  lone  spirit,  which  so  long 

Yeam'd,  as  the  captive  toiling  at  escape. 
To  fly  back  to  thee  in  despite  of  wrong, 

An  exile,  saddest  of  all  prisoners, 

Who  has  the  whole  world  for  a  dungeon  strong, 
Seas,  mountains,  and  the  horizon's  verge  for  bars, 

Which  shut  him  from  the  sole  small  spot  of  earth. 

Where— whatsoe'er  his  fate— he  still  were  hers, 
His  country's,  and  might  die  where  he  had  birth — 

Florence!  when  this  lone  spirit  shall  return 

To  kindred  spirits,  thou  wilt  feel  my  worth. 
And  seek  to  honor  with  an  empty  um 

The  ashes  thou  shalt  ne'er  obtain — Alas! 

"  What  have  I  done  to  thee,  my  people?"*    Stem 
Are  all  thy  dealings,  but  in  this  they  pass 

The  limits  of  man's  common  malice,  for 

All  that  a  citizen  could  be,  I  was; 
Raised  by  thy  will,  all  thine  in  peace  or  war. 

And  for  this  thou  hast  warr'd  with  me — 'Tis  done: 

I  may  not  overleap  the  eternal  bar 
Built  up  between  us,  and  will  die  alone. 

Beholding  with  the  dark  eye  of  a  seer 

The  evil  days  to  gifrWd.  souls  foreshown. 
Foretelling  them  to  those  who  will  not  hear. 

As  in  the  old  time,  till  the  hour  be  come 

When  truth  shall  strike  their  eyes  through  many  a  tear, 
And  make  them  own  the  Prophet  in  his  tomb. 

*  "E  scrisse  piu  volte  non  solamente  a  particolari  cittadini  del 
reggimento  ma  ancora  al  popolo,  e  intra  1'  altre  una  Epistola  assai 
lunga  che  comincia :  Popute  mi,  quid  feci  tibiV — Vita  di  Dante  scrit- 
ta  da  Lionardo  Avetino. 


♦* 


t- 


*ii ^ II- 


FRANCESCA  OI^  RIMINI* 

■VTRITTBN  1820.      PUBLISHED  1830. 


FROM  THE  INFERNO  OF  DANTE, 

CANTO  THE  FIFTH. 

"  The  land  where  I  was  bom  sits  by  the  seas,t 

Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  P(4 descends, 

With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 
Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 

Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 

From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 
Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  t||please,  so  strong, 

That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 
Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  CainaJ  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended:" 

These  were  the  accents  utter'd  by  her  tongue. — 
Since  I  first  listen'd  to  these  souls  offended, 

I  bdw'd  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till — 

''What  think'st  thou?"  said  the  bard;  when  I  unbended, 
And  recommenced:  "  AlasI  unto  such  ill 

How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecstasies, 

Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil!" 
And  then  I  tum'd  unto  their  side  my  eyes. 

And  said,  "  Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 

Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 
But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs. 

By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 

So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognize?" 
Then  she  to  me:  "  The  greatest  of  all  woes 

♦  Francesca,  daughter  of  Guido,  Lord  of  Ravenna,  was  given  by  her 
father  in  marriage  to  Lanciotto,  Lord  of  Rimini,  a  man  hideously 
deformed.  Afraid  of  disgusting  his  bride,  Lanciotto  resolved  to  be 
married  by  proxy;  and  sent  as  his  representative  his  brother  Paolo, 
who  was  the  handsomest  and  most  accomplished  cavalier  in  Italy. 
He  engaged  the  bride's  affections,  and  they  were  both  put  to  death 
afterwards,  by  the  enraged  Imsband.  The  father  of  the  unhappy 
lady  was  the  friend  and  protector  of  Dante. 

t  Ravenna. 

%  The  place  where  the  souls  of  fratricides  suffer. 


♦* 


it 


iK 


FRANCESCA  OF  RIMINI. 

Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 

In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 
But  if  to  leara  our  passion's  first  root  preys 

Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 

I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says. 
"We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh, 

Of  Lancilot,  how  love  enchain'd  him  too. 

We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 
But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 

All  o'er  discolor'd  by  that  reading  were; 

But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew; 
When  we  read  the  long-sigh'd-for  smile  of  her, 

To  be  thus  kiss'd  by  such  devoted  lover, 

He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 
Kiss'd  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over: 

Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote! 

That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover." — 
While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot, 

^he  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 

I  swoon'd,  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote, 
And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls. 


^f IK 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  subsequent    poems    were  WTitten   at  the    request  of  my 
friend,  the  Hon.  Douglas  Kinnaird,  for  a  Selection  of  Hebrew  Mel- 
odies, and  have  been  published,  with  the  music,  arranged  by  Mr. 
Braham  and  Mr.  Nathan. 

♦ 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies: 

And  all  that  's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes:- 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair' d  the  nameless  grace, 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sw^eet  express, 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


THE  HARP  THE  MONARCH  MINSTREL  SWEPT. 

Thh  harp  the  monarch  minstrel  swept. 
The  King  of  men,  the  loved  of  Heaven, 

Which  Music  hallow'd  while  she  wept 
O'er  tones  her  heart  of  hearts  had  given, 
Redoubled  be  her  tears,  its  chords  are  riven! 

It  soften'd  men  of  Iron  mould, 
It  gave  them  virtues  not  their  own; 

No  ear  so  dull,  no  soul  so  cold. 
That  felt  not,  fired  not  to  the  tone, 
Till  David's  lyre  grew  mightier  than  his  throne. 


*ii- 


il-^ 


HEBREW  MELODIES.  827 

It  told  the  triumphs  of  our  King, 

It  wafted  glory  to  our  God; 
It  made  our  gladden'd  valleys  ring, 

The  cedars  bow,  the  mountains  nod; 

Its  sound  aspired  to  heaven,  and  there  abode! 
Since  then,  though  heard  on  earth  no  more. 

Devotion,  .and  her  daughter  Love, 
Still  bid  the  bursting  spirit  soar 

To  sounds  that  seem  as  from  above. 

In  dreams  that  day's  broad  light  cannot  remove. 


IF  THAT  HIGH  WORLD. 

If  that  high  worldj  which  lies  beyond 

Our  own,  survivmg  Love  endears; 
If  there  the  cherish'd  heart  be  fond. 

The  eye  the  same,  except  in  tears — 
How  welcome  those  untrodden  spheres! 

How  sweet  this  very  hour  to  die! 
To  soar  from  earth,  and  find  all  fears 

Lost  in  thy  light — Eternity! 

It  must  be  so:  'tis  not  for  self 

That  we  so  tremble  on  the  brink; 
And  striving  to  o'erleap  the  gulf. 

Yet  cling  to  Being's  severing  link. 
Oh!  in  that  future  let  us  think 

To  hold  each  heart  the  heart  that  shares, 
With  them  the  immortal  waters  drink, 

And  soul  in  soul  grow  deathless  theirs  1 


THE  WILD  GAZELLE. 

The  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound. 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 
May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by: — 

A  step  as  fleet,  an  gye  more  bright, 

Hath  Judah  witnessed  there; 
And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone! 

More  blest  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scatter' d  race; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace: 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 


-^1 


^H- 


J 

L 

J 

U 

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J 

* 

T^ 

328                             HEBREW  MELODIES.                              ♦ 

But  we  must  wander  witheringly, 

In  other  lands  to  die; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be, 

Our  own  may  never  he: 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone, 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 

OHI  WEEP  FOR  THOSE. 

On!  weep  for  those  that  wept  by  Babel's  stream, 
Whose  shrines  are  desolate,  whose  land  a  dream; 
Weep  for  the  harp  of  Judah's  broken  shell; 
Mourn— where  their  God  hath  dwelt  the  Godless  dwell! 

And  where  shall  Israel  lave  her  bleeding  feet? 
And  when  shall  Zion's  songs  again  seem  sweet? 
And  Judah's  melody  once  more  rejoice 
The  hearts  that  leap'd  before  its  heavenly  voice? 

Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast. 
How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest? 
The  wild-dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  their  country— Israel  but. the  grave! 

ON  JORDAN'S  BANKS. 

On  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray, 

On  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray. 

The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep — 

Yet  there— even  there — 0  God!  Thy  thunders  sleep: 

There— where  Thy  finger  scoreh'd  the  tablet  stonel 
There- where  Thy  shadow  to  Thy  people  shone! 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire: 
Thyself— none  living  see  and  not  expire! 

Oh!  in  the  lightning  let  Thy  glance  appear; 
Sweep  from  his  shiver'd  hand  the  oppressor's  spear: 
How  long  by  tyrants  shah  Thy  land  be  trod! 
How  long  Thy  temple  worshipless,  0  God! 

JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER. 

Since  our  Country,  our  God — oh,  my  sire! 
Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow- 
Strike  the  bosom  that  's  bared  for  thee  now! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more: 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low. 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow! 

^  > 

f 

And  of  this,  oh,  my  father!  be  sure— 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 
As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow, 
And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 

t^. 

^ 

r 

1 

^ 

^h 


■It^ 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee, 
And  my  father  and  country  are  freel 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gush'd, 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hush'd, 
Let  my  memory  still  be  thy  pride, 
And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  diedl 


OH!  SNATCH'D  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S  BLOOM. 

Oh!  snatch 'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom! 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread; 
Fond  v/retch!  as  if  her  step  disturb 'd  the  dead! 

Away!  ye  know  that  tears  are  vain. 
That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress: 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 

And  thou  — who  tell'st  me  to  forget 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MY  SOUL  IS  DARK. 

Mt  soul  is  dark — oh!  quickly  string 

The  harp  I  yet  can  brook  to  hear; 
And  let  thy  gentle  fingers  fling 

Its  melting  murmurs  o'er  mine  ear. 
If  in  this  heart  a  hope  be  dear, 

That  sound  shall  charm  it  forth  again: 
If  in  these  eyes  there  lurk  a  tear, 

'Twill  flow,  and  cease  to  burn  my  brain. 

But  bid  the  strain  be  wild  and  deep, 

Nor  let  thy  notes  of  joy  be  first: 
I  tell  thee,  minstrel,  I  must  weep, 

Or  else  this  heavy  heart  shall  burst; 
For  it  hath  been  by  sorrow  nursed. 

And  ached  in  sleepless  silence  long; 
And  now  'tis  doom'd  to  know  the  worst, 

And  break  at  once — or  yield  to  song. 


I  SAW  THEE  WEEP. 

I  SAW  thee  weep — the  big  bright  tear 
Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue! 

And  then  methought  it  did  appear 
A  violet  dropping  dew: 


♦it- 


■JK 


^f 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

I  saw  thee  smile — ^the  sapphire's  blaze 
Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine; 

It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 
That  fill'd  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  dye, 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky, 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lightens  o'er  the  heart. 


THY  DATS  ARE  DONE. 

Thy  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun; 

Thy  country's  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  Son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword; 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

The  freedom  he  restored! 

Though  thou  art  fall'n,  while  we  are  free 
Thou  Shalt  not  taste  of  death! 

The  generous  blood  that  flow'd  from  thee 
Disdain 'd  to  sink  beneath: 

Within  our  veins  its  cuiTents  be, 
Thy  spirit  on  our  breath! 

Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle-word! 
Thy  fall,  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin  voices  pour'd! 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong; 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored. 


SONG  OF  SAUL  BEFORE  HIS  LAST  BATTLE. 

Waruiors  and  chiefs!  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path: 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow, 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe, 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet! 
Mine  be  the  doom  they  dared  not  to  meet. 

Farewell  to  others,  but  never  we  part. 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway. 
Or  kingly  the  death,  which  awaits  us  to-day. 


-t 


*it 


+ 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


331 


SAUL. 

Thou  whose  spell  can  raise  the  dead, 
Bid  the  prophet's  form  appear. 

*'  Samuel,  raise  thy  buried  head! 
King,  behold  the  phantom  seer!" 

Earth  yawn'd;  he  stood  the  centre  of  a  cloud: 

Light  changed  its  hue,  retiring  from  his  shroud. 

Death  stood  all  glassy  in  his  fixed  eye; 

His  hand  was  wither  d,  and  his  veins  were  dry; 

His  foot,  in  bony  whiteness,  glitter'd  there, 

Shrunken  and  sinewless,  and  ghastly  bare; 

From  lips  that  moved  not,  and  unbreathing  frame, 

Like  cavern'd  winds,  the  hollow  accents  came. 

Saul  saw,  and  fell  to  earth,  as  falls  the  oak. 

At  once,  and  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 

"  Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead? 
Is  it  thou,  O  King?    Behold 
Bloodless  are  these  limbs,  and  cold: 
Such  are  mine;  and  such  shall  be 
Thine  to-morrow,  when  with  me: 
Ere  the  coming  day  is  done. 
Such  Shalt  thou  be,  such  thy  son. 
Fare  thee  well,  but  for  a  day. 
Then  we  mix  our  mouldering  clay. 
Thou,  thy  race,  lie  pale  and  low, 
Pierced  by  shafts  of  many  a  bow; 
And  the  falchion  by  thy  side 
To  thy  heart  thy  hand  shall  guide: 
Crownless,  breathless,  headless  fall, 
Son  and  sire,  the  house  of  Saul." 


»'ALL  IS  VANITY,  SAITH  THE  PREACHER." 

Fame,  wisdom,  love,  and  power  were  mine, 

And  health  and  youth  possess'd  me; 
My  goblets  blush 'd  from  every  vine. 

And  lovely  forms  caress'd  me; 
I  Bunn'd  my  heart  in  beauty's  eyes. 

And  felt  my  soul  grow  tender; 
All  earth  can  give,  or  mortal  prize. 

Was  mine  of  regal  splendor. 

I  strive  to  number  o'er  what  days 

Remembrance  can  discover. 
Which  all  that  life  or  earth  displays 

Would  lure  me  to  live  over. 
There  rose  no  day,  there  roll'd  no  hour 

Of  pleasure  unembitter'd; 
And  not  a  trapping  deck'd  my  power 

That  gall'd  not  while  it  glitt*sr'd. 

The  serpent  of  the  field,  by  art 
And  spells,  is  won  from  harming; 


-* 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

But  that  which  coils  around  the  heart, 
Oh!  who  hath  power  of  charming':' 

It  will  not  list  to  wisdom's  lore, 
Nor  music's  voice  can  lure  it; 

But  there  it  stings  for  evermore 
The  soul  that  must  endure  it. 


WHEN  COLDNESS  WRAPS  THIS  SUFFERING  CLAY. 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah!  whither  strays  the  immortal  mindV 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stray, 

But  leaves  its  darken'd  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecay'd, 

A  thouglit  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 
All,  all  in  earth  or  skies  displayed 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall: 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all  that  was  at  once  appears. 

Before  Creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eye  shall  roll  through  chaos  back; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 

The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track, 
And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 
While  sun  is  queneh'd,  or  system  breaks, 

Fix'd  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  Love,  Hope,  Hate,  or  Fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure: 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year: 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  wing, 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thought  shall  fly: 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 

The  King  was  on  his  throne, 

The  Satraps  throng'd  the  hall. 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  liiglj  festival. 
A  thousaRd  cups  of  gold, 

In  Juda!h  deem'd  divine — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  Heathen's  wine. 


-It 


HEBREW  MELODIES.  333 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand: 
The  fingers  of  a  man; — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice; 
All  bloodless  wax'd  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear. 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 

Chaldea's  seers  are  good. 

But  here  they  have  no  skill: 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage. 

They  saw— but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land 

A  stranger  and  a  youth, 
He  heard  the  king's  command. 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps- around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view; 
He  read  it  on  that  night — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  pass'd  away. 
He,  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud  his  robe  of  state. 

His  canopy  the  stone: 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne!" 


SUN  OF  THE  SLEEPLESS. 

Sun  of  the  sleepless!  melancholy  star! 
Whose  tearful  beam  glows  tremulously  far, 
That  show'st  the  darkness  thou  canst  not  dispel. 
How  like  art  thou  to  joy  remember'd  welll 
So  gleams  the  past,  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  shines,  but  warms  not  with  its  powerless  rays; 
A  night^beam  Sorrow  watcheth  to  behold. 
Distinct,  but  distant — clear,  but  oh,  how  cold! 


*ii- 


334  HEBREW  MELODIES. 

WERE  MY  BOSOM  AS  FALSE  AS  THOU  DEEM'ST  IT 
TO  BE. 

Were  my  bosom  as  false  as  thou  deem'st  it  to  be, 

I  need  not  have  wander'd  from  far  Galilee: 

It  was  but  abjuring  my  creed  to  efface 

The  curse  which,  thou  say'st,  is  the  crime  of  my  race: 

If  the  bad  never  triumph,  then  God  is  with  theel 
If  the  slave  only  sin,  thou  art  spotless  and  freel 
If  the  exile  on  earth  is  an  outcast  on  high, 
Live  on  in  thy  faith,  but  in  mine  I  will  die. 

I  have  lost  for  that  faith  more  than  thou  canst  bestow, 
As  the  God  who  permits  thee  to  prosper  doth  know: 
In  His  hand  is  my  heart  and  my  hope — and  in  thine 
The  land  and  the  life  which  for  Him  I  resign. 


HEROD'S  LAMENT  FOR  MARIAMNE. 

Oh,  Mariamne!  now  for  thee 

The  heart  for  which  thou  bled'st  is  bleeding: 
Revenge  is  lost  in  agony. 

And  wild  remorse  to  rage  succeeding. 
Oh,  Mariamne!  where  thou  art 

Thou  canst  not  hear  my  bitter  pleading; 
Ah!  couldst  thou — thou  wouldst  pardon  now, 

Though  Heaven  were  to  my  prayer  unheeding. 

And  is  she  dead? — and  did  they  dare 

Obey  my  frenzy's  jealous  raving? 
My  wrath  but  doom'd  my  own  despair: 

The  sword  that  smote  her  's  o'er  me  waving. 
But  thou  art  cold,  my  murder'd  love! 

And  this  dark  heart  is  vainly  craving 
For  her  who  soars  alone  above, 

And  leaves  my  soul  unworthy  saving. 

She  's  gone,  who  shared  my  diadem; 

She  sunk,  with  her  my  joys  entombing; 
I  swept  that  flower  from  Judah's  stem, 

Whose  leaves  for  me  alone  were  blooming; 
And  mine  's  the  guilt,  and  mine  the  hell, 

This  bosom's  desolation  dooming; 
And  I  have  eam'd  those  tortures  well, 

Which  uncousumed  are  still  consuming  I 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  JERUSALEM 
BY  TITUS. 

From  the  last  hill  that  looks  on  thy  once  holy  dome 
I  beheld  thee,  O  Sionl  when  render'd  to  Rome: 
'Twas  thy  last  sun  went  down,  and  the  flames  of  thy  fall 
Flash'd  back  on  the  last  glance  I  gave  to  thy  wall. 


^K 


il- 


* 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 


335 


I  look'd  for  thy  temple,  I  look'd  for  my  home, 

And  forgot  for  a  moment  the  bondage  to  come; 

I  beheld  but  the  death-fire  that  fed  on  thy  fane, 

And  the  fast-fetter'd  hands  that  made  vengeance  in  vain. 

On  many  an  eve,  the  high  spot  whence  I  gazed 
Had  reflected  the  last  beam  of  day  as  it  blazed: 
While  1  stood  on  the  height  and  beheld  the  decline 
Of  the  rays  from  the  mountain  that  shone  on  thy  shrine. 

And  now  on  that  mountain  I  stood  on  that  day, 
But  I  mark'd  not  the  twilight  beam  melting  away; 
Oh!  would  that  the  lightning  bad  glared  in  its  stead, 
And  the  thunderbolt  burst  on  the  conqueror's  head! 

But  the  gods  of  the  Pagan  shall  never  profane 
The  shrine  where  Jehovah  disdain'd  not  to  reign; 
And  scatter'd  and  scorn'd  as  Thy  people  may  be, 
Our  worship,  0  Father!  is  only  for  Thee. 


BY  THE  RIVERS  OF  BABYLOJT  WE  SAT  DOWN 
AND  WEPT. 

We  sate  down  and  wept  by  the  waters 
Of  Babel,  and  thought  of  the  day 

When  our  foe,  in  the  hue  of  his  slaughters 
Made  Salem's  high  places  his  prey; 

And  ye,  oh  her  desolate  daughters! 
Were  scatter'd  all  weeping  away. 

While  sadly  we  gazed  on  the  river 
Which  roll'd  on  in  freedom  below. 

They  demanded  the  song;  but,  oh  never 
That  triumph  the  stranger  shall  know! 

May  this  right  hand  be  wither'd  for  ever, 
Ere  it  string  our  high  harp  for  the  foe! 

On  the  willow  that  harp  is  suspended, 
O  Salem!  its  sounds  should  be  free; 

And  the  hour  when  thy  glories  were  ended 
But  left  me  that  token  of  thee: 

And  ne'er  shall  its  soft  tones  be  blended 
With  the  voice  of  the  spoiler  by  me! 


^t 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold. 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea. 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen: 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn  hath  blown. 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 


iH- 


4k 


HEBREW  MELODIES. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd! 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew  still! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide. 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride: 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mailj 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord! 


A  SPIRIT  PASS'D  BEFORE  ME. 

FROM  JOB. 

A  Spirit  pass'd  before  me:  I  beheld 

The  face  of  immortality  unveil'd— 

Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine — 

And  there  it  stood — all  formless,  but  divine: 

Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake; 

And  as  my  damp  hair  stiffen'd,  thus  it  spake: 

"  Is  man  more  just  than  God?    Is  man  more  pure 
Than  He  who  deems  even  Seraphs  insecure? 
Creatures  of  clay — ^vain  dwellers  in  the  dust! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just? 
Things  of  a  day!  you  wither  ere  the  night. 
Heedless  and  blind  to  Wisdom's  wasted  light!" 


*H JH- 


^ 


* 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

A  SERIES  OF  POEMS,  ORIGINAL  AND  TRANSLATED. 


Virginibus  puerisque  canto."— Horace,  lib.  iii..  Ode  1. 
Mjjt'  ap  /ix«  fjLoX  alvee,  /lujt€  Ti  v€t#c€i." — HOMBR,  Iliad,  X.  249. 
'  He  whistled  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought. "— Dbyden. 


THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE 

FREDERICK,  EARL  OF  CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT  OF  THE  GARTER,  ETC.,  ETC., 

THIS  SECOND  EDITION  OF  THESE  POEMS  IS  INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS 

OBUOED  WARD  AND  AFFECTIONATE  KINSMAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


-^t 


t 


*il IK 


PREFACE. 


In  submitting  to  the  public  eye  the  following"  collection,  I  have  not 
only  to  combat  the  difficulties  that  writers  of  verse  generally  en- 
counter, but  may  incur  the  charge  of  presumption  for  obtruding 
myself  on  the  world,  when,  without  doubt,  I  might  be,  at  my  age, 
more  usefully  employed. 

These  productions  are  the  fruits  of  the  lighter  hours  of  a  young 
man  who  has  lately  completed  his  nineteenth  year.  As  they  bear 
the  internal  evidence  of  a  boyish  mind,  thisis,  perhaps,  unnecessary 
information.  Some  few  were  written  during  the  disadvantages 
of  illness  and  depression  of  spirits:  under  the  former  influence, 
"Childish  Recollections,"  in  particular,  -were  composed.  This 
consideration,  though  it  cannot  excite  the  voice  of  praise,  may  at 
least  arrest  the  arm  of  censure.  A  considerable  portion  of  these 
poems  has  been  privately  printed,  at  the  request  and  for  the  perusal 
of  my  friends.  I  am  sensible  that  the  partial  and  frequently  inju- 
dicious admiration  of  a  social  circle  is  not  the  criterion  by  which 
poetical  gonius  is  to  be  estimated,  yet,  "to  do  gnreatly,"  we  must 
"dare  greatly;"  and  I  have  hazarded  my  reputation  and  feelings  in 
publishing  this  volume.  "I  have  passed  the  Rubicon,"  and  must 
stand  or  fall  by  the  "cast  of  the  die."  In  the  latter  event,  I  shall 
submit  without  a  murmur;  for,  though  not  without  solicitude  for 
the  fate  of  these  effusions,  my  expectations  are  by  no  means  san- 
guine. It  is  probable  that  I  may  have  dared  much  and  done  little ; 
for,  in  the  wonds  of  Cowper,  "  it  is  one  thing  to  write  what  may 
please  our  friends,  who,  because  they  are  such,  are  apt  to  be  a  little 
biased  in  our  favor;  and  another  to  write  what  may  please  ever>'- 
body,  because  they  who  have  no  connection,  or  even  knowledge  of 
the  author,  will  be  sure  to  find  fault  if  they  can."  To  the  truth  of 
this,  however,  I  do  not  wholly  subscribe;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel 
convinced  that  these  trifles  will  not  be  treated  with  injustice.  Their 
merit,  if  they  possess  any,  will  be  liberally  allowed ;  their  numerous 
faults,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  expect  that  favor  which  has  been 
denied  to  othere  of  maturer  years,  decided  character,  and  far 
greater  ability, 

I  have  not  aimed  at  exclusive  originality,  still  less  have  I  studied 
any  particular  model  for  imitation :  some  translations  are  given,  of 
which  many  are  paraphrastic.  In  the  original  pieces  there  may 
appear  a  casual  coincidence  with  authors  whoso  works  I  have  been 


^K 


■II- 


ii* 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS^  339 

aocufjtomed  to  read ;  but  I  have  not  been  guilty  of  intentional  plagiar- 
ism. To  produce  anything  entirely  new,  in  an  age  so  fertile  in  rhyme, 
would  be  a  herculean  task,  as  every  subject  has  already  been  treated 
to  its  utmost  extent.  Poetry,  however,  is  not  my  primary  vocation; 
to  divert  the  dull  moments  of  indisposition,  or  the  monotony  of  a 
vacant  hour,  urged  me  "to  this  sin:"  little  can  be  expected  fiom  so 
unpromising  a  muse.  My  wreath,  scanty  as  it  must  be,  is  all  I  shall 
derive  from  these  productions?  and  I  shall  never  attempt  to  replace 
its  fading  leaves,  or  pluck  a  single  additional  sprig  from  groves 
where  I  am,  at  best,  an  intruder.  Though  accustomed,  in  my 
younger  days,  to  rove  a  careless  mountaineer  on  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland,  I  have  not,  of  late  years,  had  the  benefit  of  such  pure  air, 
or  so  elevated  a  residence,  as  might  enable  me  to  enter  the  lists  with 
genuine  bards  who  have  enjoyed  both  these  advantages.  But  they 
derive  considerable  fame,  and  a  few  not  less  profit,  fi'om  their  pro- 
ductions: while  I  shall  expiate  my  rashness  as  an  interloper,  cer- 
tainly without  the  latter,  and  in  all  probability  with  a  very  slight 
share  of  the  forme.'.  I  leave  to  others  "  virura  volitare  per  ora. "  I 
look  to  the  few  who  will  hear  with  patience  "dulce  est  desipere  in 
loco."  To  the  former  worthies  I  resign,  without  repining,  the  hope 
of  immortality,  and  content  myself  with  the  not  very  magnificent 
prospect  of  ranking  amongst  "  the  mob  of  gentlemen  who  write  " — 
my  readers  must  determine  whether  I  dare  say  "with  ease  "—or  the 
honor  of  a  posthumous  page  in  "The  Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble 
Authors,"— a  work  to  which  the  Peerage  is  under  infinite  obliga- 
tions, inasmuch  as  many  names  of  considerable  length,  sound,  and 
antiquity,  are  thereby  rescued  from  the  obscurity  which  unluckily 
overshadows  several  voluminous  productions  of  their  illustrioxis 
bearers. 

With  slight  hopes,  and  some  fears,  I  publish  this  first  and  last 
attempt.  To  the  dictates  of  young  ambition  may  be  ascribed 
many  actions  more  criminal  and  equally  absurd.  To  a  few  of  my 
own  age  the  contents  may  afford  amusement:  I  trust  they  will,  at 
least,  be  found  harmless.  It  is  highly  improbable,  from  my  situa- 
tion and  pursuits  hereafter,  that  I  should  ever  obtrude  myself  a 
second  time  on  the  public;  nor,  even  in  the  very  doubtful  event  of 
present  indulgence,  shall  I  be  tempted  to  commit  a  future  trespass 
of  the  same  nature.  The  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  Poems  of  a 
noble  relation  of  mine,*  "That  when  a  man  of  rank  appeared  in 
the  character  of  an  author,  he  deserved  to  have  his  merit  hand- 
somely allowed,"  can  have  little  weight  with  verbal,  and  still  less 
with  periodical  censors;  but  were  it  otherwise,  I  should  be  loth  to 
avail  myself  of  the  privilege,  and  would  rather  incur  the  bitterest 
censure  of  anonymous  criticism,  than  triumph  in  honors  granted 
solely  to  a  title. 

*  The  Earl  of  Carlisle,  whose  works  have  long  received  the  meed 
of  public  applause,  to  which,,by  their  intrinsic  worth,  they  were  well 
entitled. 


■Ht 


^h 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

COUSIN  TO  THE  AUTHOB,  AND  VERY  DEAR  TO  HIM.* 

Hush'd  are  the  winds,  and  stUl  the  evening  gloom, 
Not  e'en  a  zephyr  wanders  through  the  grove. 

Whilst  I  return,  to  view  my  Margaret's  tomb, 
And  scatter  flowers  on  the  dust  I  love. 

Within  this  narrow  cell  reclines  her  clay, 
That  clay,  where  once  such  animation  beam'd, 

The  King  of  Terrors  seized  her  as  his  prey; 
Not  worth,  nor  beauty,  have  her  life  redeem'd. 

Oh!  could  that  King  of  Terrors  pity  feel, 
Or  Heaven  reverse  the  dread  decrees  of  fatel 

Not  here  the  mourner  would  his  grief  reveal, 
Not  here  the  muse  her  virtues  would  relate. 

But  wherefore  weep?    Her  matchless  spirit  soars 
Beyond  where  splendid  shines  the  orb  of  day; 

And  weeping  angels  lead  her  to  those  bowers 
Where  endless  pleasures  virtue's  deeds  repay. 

And  shall  presumptuous  mortals  Heaven  arraign, 
And,  madly,  godlike  Proviilence  accuse? 

Ah!  no,  far  fly  from  me  attempts  so  vain;-™ 
I'll  ne'er  submission  to  my  God  refuse. 

Yet  Is  remembrance  of  those  virtues  dear. 
Yet  fresh  the  memory  of  that  beauteous  face; 

Still  they  call  forth  my  warm  afEection's  tear, 
Still  in  my  heart  retain  their  wonted  place, 

1803. 


TO  E- 


Let  Folly  smile,  to  view  the  names 

Of  thee  and  me  in  friendship  twined; 
Yet  Virtue  will  have  greater  claims 

To  love,  than  rank  with  vice  combined. 

♦  Tlie  author  claims  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  more  for  this 
piece  than,  perhaps,  any  other  in  the  collection ;  but  as  it  was  writ- 
ten at  an  earlier  period  than  the  rest  (being  composed  at  the  age  of 
fourteen),  and  his  first  essay,  ho  preferred  suumitting  it  to  the 
indulgence  of  his  friends  in  its  present  state,  to  making  either 
addition  or  alteration. 

■* *• 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

And  though  unequal  is  thy  fate, 
Since  title  deck'd  my  higher  birth, 

Yet  envy  not  this  gaudy  state; 
Thine  is  the  pride  of  modest  worth. 

Our  souls  at  least  congenial  meet. 
Nor  can  thy  lot  my  rank  disgrace; 

Our  intercourse  is  not  less  sweet, 
Since  worth  of  rank  supplies  the  place. 
MvenibeTy  1803. 


n 


341 


TO  D- 


In  thee,  I  fondly  hoped  to  clasp 
A  friend,  whom  death  alone  could  sever; 

Till  envy,  with  malignant  grasp, 
Detach'd  thee  from  my  breast  for  ever. 

True,  she  has  forced  thee  from  my  breast, 
Yet,  in  my  heart  thou  koep'st  thy  seat; 

There,  there  thine  image  still  must  rest, 
Until  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat. 

And,  when  the  grave  restores  her  dead, 
V/hen  life  again  to  dust  is  given, 

On  thy  dear  breast  I'll  lay  my  head — 
Without  thee,  where  would  be  my  heaven? 
Fdmiary,  1803. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FRIEND. 

O  Friend!  for  ever  loved,  for  ever  dear! 

What  fruitless  tears  have  bathed  thy  honor'd  bier! 

What  sighs  re-echo'd  to  thy  parting  breath, 

Whilst  thou  wast  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  1 

Could  tears  retard  the  tyrant  in  his  course; 

Could  sighs  avert  his  dart's  relentless  force; 

Could  youth  and  virtue  claim  a  short  delay. 

Or  beauty  charm  the  spectre  from  his  prey; 

Thou  still  hadst  lived  to  bless  my  aching  sight, 

Thy  comrade's  honor  and  thy  friend's  delight. 

If  yet  thy  gentle  spirit  hover  nigh. 

The  spot  where  now  thy  mouldering  ashes  lie, 

Here  wilt  thou  read,  recorded  on  my  heart, 

A  grief  too  deep  to  trust  the  sculptor's  art. 

No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 

But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep; 

Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb 

Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom. 

What  though  thy  sire  lament  his  failing  line, 

A  father's  sorrows  cmnot  equal  mine! 

Though  none,  like  thee,  his  dying  hour  will  cheer, 

Yet  other  offspring  soothe  his  anguish  here: 


♦* 


*♦ 


343 


1803. 


1803. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

But,  who  with  me  shall  hold  thy  former  place? 
Thine  image,  what  new  friendship  can  effaceV 
Ah!  nonel — a  father's  tears  will  cease  to  flow, 
Time  will  assuage  an  infant  brother's  woe; 
To  all,  save  one,  is  consolation  known, 
While  solitary  friendship  sighs  alone. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


When,  to  their  airy  hall,  my  fathers'  voice 
Shall  call  my  spirit,  joyful  in  their  choice; 
When,  poised  upon  the  gale,  my  form  shall  ride, 
Or,  dark  in  mist,  descend  the  mountain's  side; 
Oh!  may  my  shade  behold  no  sculptured  urns 
To  mark  the  spot  where  earth  to  earth  returns! 
No  lengthen'd  scroll,  no  praise-encumber'd  stone; 
My  epitaph  shall  be  my  name  alone; 
If  tfiat  with  honor  fail  to  crown  my  clay. 
Oh!  may  no  other  fame  my  deeds  repay! 
That,  only  that,  shall  single  out  the  spot; 
By  that  remember'd,  or  with  that  forgot. 


■IK 


ON  LEAVING  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"Why  doSt  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged  days?  Thou 
lookest  from  thy  tower  to-day:  yet  a  few  years,  and  the  blast  of 
the  desert  comes,  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court."— Ossian. 

Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead,  the  hollow  winds  whistle; 

Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay: 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 

Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  late  bloom'd  in  the  way. 

Of  the  mail-cover' d  Barons,  who  proudly  to  battle 
Led  their  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain. 

The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  blast  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain. 

No  more  doth  old  Robert,  with  harp-stringing  numbers, 
Raise  a  flame  in  the  breast  for  the  war-laurell'd  wreath; 

Near  Askalon's  towers,  John  of  Horistan  slumbers; 
Unnerved  is  the  hand  of  his  minstrel  by  death. 

Paul  and  Hubert,  too,  sleep  in  the  valley  of  Cressy; 

For  the  safety  of  Edward  and  England  they  fell: 
My  fathers!  the  tears  of  your  country  redress  ye; 

How  you  fought,  how  you  died,  still  her  annals  can  tell. 

On  Marston,  with  Rupert,  'gainst  traitors  contending,* 
Four  brothers  enrich'd  with  their  blood  the  bleak  field; 

For  the  rights  of  a  monarch  their  country  defending. 
Till  death  their  attachment  to  royalty  seal'd. 

♦  The  battle  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  adherents  of  Charles  I. 
were  defeated.— Rupert,  son  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  and  nephew  to 
Charles  I.  He  afterwards  commanded  the  fleet  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II. 


Hi- 


Btron. 


•Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  are  ^one  to  deoay." 

Nctv.fteud  Abbey.— Page  343. 


^ ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  343 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell!  your  descendant,  departing 

From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu! 
Abroad,  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 

New  courage,  he'll"  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 

'Tis  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret; 
Far  distant  he  goes,  with  the  same  emulation. 

The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame,  and  that  memory,  still  will  he  cherish; 

He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown; 
Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish: 

When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own! 
1803. 


LINES. 

"vmitten  in  "  letters  to  an  italian  nun  and  an  english 
gentleman:  by  j,  j.  rousseau:  founded  on  facts." 

"  Away,  away,  your  flattering:  arts 
May  now  betray  some  simple  hearts; 
And  you  will  smile  at  their  believinpr. 
And  they  shall  weep  at  your  deceiving." 

ANSWER  TO  THE  FOREGOING,  ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  . 

Dear,  simple  girl,  those  flattering  arts, 
From  which  thouMst  guard  frail  female  hearts, 
Exist  but  in  imagination — 
Mere  phantoms  of  thine  own  creation; 
For  he  who  views  that  witching  gi-ace, 
That  perfect  form,  that  lovely  face, 
With  eyes  admiring,  oh!  believe  me, 
He  never  wishes  to  deceive  thee: 
Once  in  thy  polish 'd  mirror  glance, 
Thou'lt  there  descry  that  elegance 
Which  from  our  sex  demands  such  praises, 
But  envy  in  the  other  raises: 
Then  he  who  tells  thee  of  thy  beauty, 
Believe  me,  only  does  his  duty: 
Ah!  fly  not  from  the  candid  youth; 
It  is  not  flattery— 'tis  truth. 
Jtdy,  1804. 

ADRIAN'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  SOUL  WHEN  DYING.* 

Ah!  gentle,  fleeting,  wav'ring  sprite, 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay! 

To  what  unknown  region  borne, 
Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight? 
No  more  with  wonted  humor  gay. 

But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 

*  "  Animulal  vagula,blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca— 
Pallidula,  rigidn,  nudula, 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos?" 


ii* 


■ft fr 

344  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  •* 

TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

AD  LESBIAM. 

Equal  to  Jove  that  youth  must  be — 

Greater  than  Jove  he  seems  to  me — 

Who,  free  from  Jealousy's  alarms, 

Securely  views  thy  matchless  charms. 

That  cheek,  which  ever  dimpling  glows. 

That  mouth,  from  whence  such  music  flows, 

To  him,  alike,  are  always  known, 

Reserved  for  him,  and  him  alone. 

Ah,  Lesbia!  though  'tis  death  to  me, 

I  cannot  choose  but  look  on  thee; 

But,  at  the  sight,  my  senses  fly; 

I  needs  must  gaze,  but,  gazing,  die; 

Whilst  trembling  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Parch'd  to  the  throat  my  tongue  adheres. 

My  pulse  beats  quick,  my  breath  heaves  short, 

My  limbs  deny  their  slight  support, 

Cold  dews  my  pallid  face  o'erspread, 

With  deadly  languor  droops  my  head, 

My  ears  with  tingling  echoes  ring, 

And  life  itself  is  on  the  wing: 

My  eyes  refuse  the  cheering  light, 

Their  orbs  are  veil'd  in  starless  night: 

Such  pangs  my  nature  sinks  beneath. 

And  feels  a  temporary'  death. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  EPITAPH  ON  VIRGIL  AND 
TIBULLUS, 

BY  DOMITIUS  MARSU8. 

He  who  sublime  in  epic  numbers  roll'd, 
And  he  who  struck  the  softer  lyre  of  love. 

By  Death's  unequal  hand  alike  controll'd,* 
Fit  comrades  in  Elysian  regions  move! 


IMITATION  OF  TIBULLUS. 

"  Sulpicia  ad  Cerinthum."— L/ft.  4. 

CJruel  Cerinthus!  does  the  fell  disease 

Which  racks  my  breast  your  fickle  bosom  please? 

Alas!  I  wish'd  but  to  o'ercorae  the  pain, 

That  I  might  live  for  love  and  you  again: 

But  now  i  scarcely  shall  bewail  my  fate; 

By  death  alone  I  can  avoid  your  hate. 

*  The  hand  of  Death  is  said  to  be  unjust  or  unequal,  as  Virgil  was 
considerably  older  than  Tibullus  at  his  decease. 

^ ; *♦ 


^h 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


94Ji 


TRANSLATION  FROM  CATULLUS. 

Te  Cupids,  droop  each  little  head, 
Nor  let  your  wings  with  joy  be  spread. 
My  Lesbia's  favorite  bird  is  dead, 

Whom  dearer  than  her  eyes  she  loved: 
For  he  was  gentle,  and  so  true, 
Obedient  to  ner  call  he  flew. 
No  fear,  no  wild  alarm  he  knew^ 

But  lightly  o'er  her  bosom  moved: 

And  softly  fluttering  here  and  there, 
He  never  sought  to  cleave  the  air. 
But  chirrup'd  oft,  and,  free  from  care, 

Tuned  to  her  ear  his  grateful  strain. 
Now  having  passed  the  gloomy  bourne 
From  whence  he  never  can  return. 
His  death  and  Lesbia's  grief  I  mourn, 

Who  sighs,  alas!  but  sighs  in  vain. 

Oh!  curst  be  thou,  devouring  grave! 
Whose  jaws  eternal  victims  crave. 
From  whom  no  earthly  power  can  save, 

For  thou  hast  ta'en  the  bird  away: 
From  thee  my  Lesbia's  eyes  o'erflow. 
Her  swollen  cheeks  with  weeping  glow; 
Thou  art  the  cause  of  all  her  woe. 

Receptacle  of  life's  decay. 


IMITATED  FROM  CATULLUS. 

TO  ELLEN. 

On!  might  I  kiss  those  eyes  of  fire, 
A  million  scarce  would  quench  desire: 
Still  would  I  steep  my  lips  in  bliss. 
And  dwell  an  age  on  every  kiss: 
Nor  then  my  soul  should  sated  be; 
Still  would  I  kiss  and  cling  to  thee: 
Nought  should  my  kiss  from  thine  dissever; 
Still  would  we  kiss,  and  kiss  for  ever; 
E'en  though  the  numbers  did  exceed 
The  yellow  harvest's  countless  seed. 
To  part  would  be  a  vain  endeavor: 
Could  I  desist? — ahl  never— never! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE. 

The  man  of  firm  and  noble  soul 
No  factious  clamors  can  control; 
No  threat'ning  tyrant's  darkling  brow 

Can  swerve  xiim  from  his  just  intent: 
Gales  the  warring  waves  which  plough, 

By  Auster  on  the  billows  spent. 
To  curb  the  Adriatic  main, 
Wonld  a'^e  his  fix '<3,  determined  mind  In  vain. 


*ii- 


^^* 


^K 


94S  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Ay,  and  the  red  right  arm  of  Jove, 
Hurtlinff  his  lightnings  from  above, 
With  all  his  terrors  there  unfurl'd, 

He  would,  unmoved,  unawed,  bcLold. 
The  flames  of  an  expiring  world. 

Again  in  crashing  chaos  roll'd. 
In  vast  promiscuous  ruin  hurl'd. 
Might  light  his  glorious  funeral  pile: 
Still  dauntless  'midst  the  WTCck  of  earth  he'd  smile. 


-t 


FROM  ANACREON. 

I  TTiSH  to  tune  my  quivering  lyr« 
To  deeds  of  fame  and  notes  of  fire; 
To  echo,  from  its  rising  swell. 
How  heroes  fought  and  nations  fell, 
When  Atreus'  sons  advanced  to  war, 
Or  Tyrian  Cadmus  roved  afar; 
But  still,  to  martial  strains  unknown, 
My  lyre  recurs  to  love  alone: 
Fired  with  the  hope  of  future  fame, 
I  seek  some  nobler  hero's  name: 
The  dying  chords  are  strung  anew, 
To  war.  to  war,  my  harp  is  due: 
With  glowing  strings,  the  epic  strain 
To  Jove's  great  son  I  raise  again; 
Alcides  and  his  glorious  deeds. 
Beneath  whose  arm  the  Hydra  bleeds. 
All,  all  in  vain;  my  wayward  lyre 
Wakes  silver  notes  of  soft  desire. 
Adieu  ye  chiefs  renown'd  in  armsl 
Adieu  the  clang  of  war's  alarms! 
To  other  deeds  my  soul  is  strung. 
And  sweeter  notes  shall  now  be  sung; 
My  harp  shall  all  its  powers  reveal. 
To  tell  the  tale  my  heart  must  feel: 
Love,  Love  alone,  my  lyre  shall  claim, 
In  Bongs  of  bliss  and  sighs  of  flame. 


FROM  ANACREON. 


'TwAS  now  the  hour  when  Night  had  driven 
Her  car  half  round  yon  sable  heaven; 
Bootes,  only,  seem'd  to  roll 
His  arctic  charge  around  the  pole: 
While  mortals  lost  in  gentle  sleep, 
Forgot  to  smile  or  ceased  to  weep: 
At  this  lone  hour,  the  Paphian  boy. 
Descending  from  the  realms  of  joy. 
Quick  to  my  gate  directs  his  course, 
And  knocks  with  all  his  little  force. 
My  visions  fled,  alarra'd  I  rose — 
"  What  stranger  breaks  my  blest  repose?" 
"  Alasl"  replies  the  wily  child, 
Xa  faltering  accenta  ersweetly  mUd, 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

"  A  hapless  infant  here  I  roam, 

Far  from  my  dear  maternal  home. 

Oh!  shield  me  from  the  wintry  blast! 

The  nightly  storm  is  pouring  fast; 

No  prowling  robber  lingers  here; 

A  wandering  baby  who  can  fear?" 

I  heard  his  seeming  artless  tale, 

I  heard  his  sighs  upon  the  gale: 

My  breast  was  never  pity's  foe, 

But  felt  for  all  the  baby's  woe. 

I  drew  the  bar,  and  by  the  light, 

Young  Love,  the  infant,  met  my  sight; 

His  bow  across  his  shoulders  flung, 

And  thence  his  fatal  quiver  hung 

(Ah!  little  did  I  think  the  dart 

Would  rankle  soon  within  my  heart). 

With  care  I  tend  my  weary  guest. 

His  little  fingers  chill  my  breast; 

His  glossy  curls,  his  azure  wing. 

Which  droop  with  nightly  showers,  I  wring; 

His  shivering  limbs  the  embers  warm; 

And  now  reviving  from  the  storm. 

Scarce  had  he  felt  his  ■v\^onted  glow, 

Than  swift  he  seized  his  slender  bow: — 

*'  I  fain  would  know,  my  gentle  host," 

He  cried,  "  if  this  its  strength  has  lost; 

I  fear,  relax'd  with  midnight  dewe. 

The  strings  their  former  aid  refuse." 

With  poison  tipt,  his  arrow  flies, 

Deep  in  my  tortured  heart  it  lies; 

Then  loud  the  joyous  urchin  laugh'd:— 

"  My  bow  can  still  impel  the  shaft: 

'Tis  firmly  fix'd,  thy  sighs  reveal  it; 

Say,  courteous  host,  canst  thou  not  feel  it?" 


347 


FROM  THE  PROMETHEUS  VINCTUS  OF  ^SCHYLUS. 

Great  Jove,  to  whose  almighty  throne        * 

Both  gods  and  mortals  homage  pay, 
Ne'er  may  my  soul  thy  powers  disown, 

Thy  dread  behests  ne'er  disobey. 
Oft  shall  the  sacred  victim  tall 
In  sea-girt  Ocean's  mossy  hall; 
My  voice  shall  raise  no  impious  strain 
'Gainst  him  who  rules  the  sky  and  azure  main. 

How  different  now  thy  joyless  fate, 

Since  first  Hesione  thy  bride, 
When  placed  aloft  in  godlike  state, 
The  blushing  beauty  by  thy  side. 
Thou  sat'st,  while  reverend  Ocean  smiled, 
And  mirthful  strains  the  hours  beguiled, 
The  Nymphs  and  Tritons  danced  around, 
Nor  yet  thy  doom  was  fix'd,  nor  Jqve  relentless  frown'd. 
Haerow,  Dec.  1, 1804. 


^H- 


^ ^ 

348  HOURS  or  IDLENESS. 

TO  EMMA, 

Since  now  the  hour  is  come  at  last, 

When  you  must  quit  vour  anxious  lover; 
Since  now  our  dream  of  bliss  is  past, 

One  pang,  my  girl,  and  all  is  over. 

Alas!  that  pang  will  be  severe, 

Which  bids  us  part  to  meet  no  more; 
Which  tears  me  far  from  one  so  dear. 

Departing  for  a  distant  shore. 

Well!  we  have  passed  some  happy  hours, 

And  joy  will  mingle  with  our  tears, 
When  thinking  on  these  ancient  towers. 

The  shelter  of  our  infant  years; 

Where,  from  this  Gothic  casement's  height, 

We  view'd  the  lake,  the  park,  the  dell; 
And  still,  though  tears  obstruct  our  sight, 

We  lingering  look  a  last  farewell. 

O'er  fields  through  which  we  used  to  run. 

And  spend  the  hours  in  childish  play; 
O'er  shades  where,  when  our  race  was  done. 

Reposing  on  my  breast  you  lay; 

Whilst  I,  admiring,  too  remiss. 

Forgot  to  scare  the  hovering  flies, 
Yet  envied  every  fly  the  kiss 

It  dared  to  give  your  slumbering  eyes: 

See  still  the  little  painted  bark, 

In  which  I  row'd  you  o'er  the  lake; 
See  there,  high  waving  o'er  the  park. 

The  elm  I  clamber'd  for  your  sake. 

These  times  are  past— our  joys  are  gone, 

You  leave  me,  leave  this  happy  vale; 
These  scenes  I  must  retrace  alone: 

Without  thee,  what  will  they  avail? 

Wtio  can  conceive,  who  has  not  proved, 

The  anguish  of  a  last  embrace. 
When,  torn  from  all  you  fondly  loved. 

You  bid  a  long  adieu  to  peace? 

This  Is  the  deepest  of  our  woes. 

For  this  these  tears  our  cheeks  bedew; 
This  is  of  love  the  final  close, 

O  GodI  the  fondest,  last  adieul 


TO  M.  S.  G. 


Whene'er  I  view  those  lips  of  thine. 
Their  hue  invites  my  fervent  kiss; 

Yet  1  forego  that  bliss  divine, 
Alas!  it  were  unhallow'd  bliss. 


4H- 


J 

I 

J 

t. 

'^ 

I 

HOURS  OF,  IDLENESS. 

•     Whene'er  I  dream  of  that  pure  breast, 
How  could  I  dwell  upon  its  snows! 
Yet  is  the  daring  wish  represt; 
For  that— Would  banish  its  repose. 

A  glance  from  that  soul-searchine:  eye 
Can  raise  with  hope,  depress  with  fear; 

Yet  I  conceal  my  love— and  why? 
I  would  not  force  a  painful  tear. 

I  ne'er  have  told  my  love,  yet  thou 
Hast  seen  my  ardent  flame  too  well; 

And  shall  I  plead  my  passion  now, 
To  make  thy  bosom's  heaven  a  hell? 

No!  for  thou  never  canst  be  mine, 
United  by  the  priest's  decree: 

By  any  ties  but  those  divine, 
Mine,  my  beloved,  thou  ne'er  shalt  be. 

Then  let  the  secret  fire  consume, 
Let  it  consume,  thou  shalt  not  know: 

With  joy  i  court  a  certain  doom. 
Rather  than  spread  its  guilty  glow, 

I  wUl  not  ease  my  tortured  heart, 
By  driving  dove-eyed  peace  from  thine; 

Rather  than  such  a  sting  impart, 
Each  thought  presumptuous  I  resign. 

Yes!  jield  those  lips,  for  which  I'd  brave 
More  than  I  here  shall  dare  to  tell; 

Thy  innocence  and  mine  to  save— 
I  bid  thee  now  a  last  farewell. 

Yesl  yield  that  breast,  to  seek  despair, 
And  hope  no  more  a  fond  embrace; 

Which  to  obtain  my  soul  would  dare 
All,  all  reproach— but  thy  disgrace. 

At  least  from  guilt  thou  shalt  be  free, 
No  matron  shall  thy  shame  reprove; 

Though  cureless  pangs  may  prey  on  me, 
No  martyr  shalt  thou  be  to  love. 

t 

349 

\ 

I* 

TO  CAROLINE. 

Think'st  thou  I  saw  thy  beauteous  eyes; 

Suffused  in  tears,  implore  to  stay^ 
And  heard  unmoved  thy  plenteous  bighs, 

Which  said  far  more  than  words  can  say? 

Though  keen  the  grief  thy  tears  exprest, 
When  love  and  hope  lay  both  o'erthrown; 

Yet  still,  my  girl^  this  bleeding  breast 
Throbb'd  with  deep  sorrow  as  thine  c^vn. 

.  Y 

t 

H  . 

♦"l 

I 

• 

1 

f^ 

^ -^ 

850  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

But  when  our  checks  with  anguiBh  glow'd,         • 

When  thy  sweet  lips  were  join'd  to  mine, 
The  tears  that  from  my  eyelids  flow'd 

Were  lost  in  those  which  fell  from  thine. 

Thou  couldst  not  feel  my  burning  cheek. 
Thy  gushing  tears  had  quench'd  its  flaime; 

And  as  thy  tongue  essay'd  to  speak, 
In  sighs  alone  it  breathed  my  name. 

And  yet,  my  girl,  we  weep  in  vain, 

In  vain  our  fate  in  sighs  deplore; 
Remembrance  only  can  remain — 

But  that  will  make  us  weep  the  more. 

Again,  thou  best  beloved,  adieu! 

Ahl  if  thou  canst,  o'ercome  regret; 
Nor  let  thy  mind  past  joys  review — 

Our  only  hope  is  to  forget! 


TO  CAROLINE. 


When  I  hear  you  express  an  affection  so  warm, 

Ne'er  think,  my  beloved,  that  I  do  not  believe; 
For  your  lij)  would  the  soul  of  suspicion  disarm. 

And  your  eye  beams  a  ray  which  can  never  deceive. 

Tet,  still,  this  fond  bosom  regrets,  while  adoring, 

That  love,  like  the  leaf,  must  fall  into  the  sear; 
That  age  will  come  on,  when  remembrance,  deploring. 

Contemplates  the  scenes  of  her  youth  with  a  tear; 

That  the  time  must  arrive,  when,  no  longer  retaining 
Their  auburn,  those  locks  must  wave  thin  to  the  breeze, 

When  a  few  silver  hairs  of  those  tresses  remaining, 
Prove  nature  a  prey  to  decay  and  disease. 

'Tis  this,  my  beloved,  which  spreads  gloom  o'er  my  features. 
Though  I  ne'er  shall  presume  to  arraign  the  decree, 

Which  God  has  proclaim'd  as  the  fate  of  His  creatures, 
In  the  death  which  one  day  will  deprive  you  of  me. 

Mistake  not,  sweet  sceptic,  the  cause  of  emotion, 

No  doubt  can  the  mind  of  your  lover  invade; 
He  worships  each  look  with  such  faithful  devotion, 

A  smile  can  enchant,  or  a  tear  can  dissuade. 

But  as  death,  my  beloved,  soon  or  late  shall  o'ertake  us, 
And  our  breasts,  which  alive  with  such  sympathy  glow, 

Will  sleep  in  the  grave  till  the  blast  shall  awake  us, 
When  calling  the  dead,  in  earth's  bosom  laid  low, — 

Oh!  then  let  us  drain,  while  we  may,  draughts  of  pleasure, 
Which  from  passion  like  ours  may  unceasingly  flow: 

Let  us  i)ass  round  the  cup  of  love's  bliss  in  full  measure, 
And  quaff  the  contents  as  our  nectar  below. 
1805. 

A . ^ ^ 


♦it- 


A. 


HOURS  OF  n>LEsrt:ss, 


851 


TO  CAROLINE. 

Oh!  when  shall  the  grave  hide  for  ever  my  sorrows? 

Oh!  when  shall  my  soul  wing  her  flight  from  this  clay? 
The  present  is  hell,  and  the  coming  to-morrow 

But  brings,  with  new  torture,  the  curse  of  to-day. 

From  my  eye  flows  no  tear,  from  my  lips  flow  no  curses, 
I  blast  not  the  fiends  who  have  hurl'd  me  from  bliss, 

For  poor  is  the  soul  which  bewailing  rehearses 
In  querulous  grief,  when  in  anguish  like  this. 

"Was  my  eye,  'stead  of  tears,  with  red  fury  flakes  bright'nlng, 
Would  my  lips  breathe  a  flame  which  no  stream  could  assuage, 

On  our  foes  should  my  glance  launch  in  vengeance  its  lightning, 
With  transport  my  tongue  give  a  loose  to  its  rage. 

But  now  tears  and  curses,  alike  unavailing, 
Would  add  to  the  souls  of  our  tyrants  delight: 

Could  they  view  us  our  sad  separation  bewailing. 
Their  merciless  hearts  would  rejoice  at  the  sight. 

Yet  still,  though  we  bend  with  a  feign'd  resignation, 
Life  beams  not  for  us  Avith  one  ray  that  can  cheer. 

Love  and  hope  upon  earth  bring  no  more  consolation; 
In  the  grave  is  our  hope,  for  in  life  is  our  fear. 

Oh!  when,  my  adored,  in  the  tomb  will  they  place  me, 
Since  in  life,  love  and  friendship  for  ever  arc  fled? 

If  again  in  the  mansion  of  earth  I  embrace  thee. 
Perhaps  they  will  leave  unmolested  the  dead. 

1805. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY, 

WITH  THE  POEMS  OF  CAMOENS. 

This  votive  pledge  of  fond  esteem, 
Perhaps,  dear  girl!  for  me  thou'lt  prize; 

It  sings  of  Love's  en-^hanting  dream, 
A  theme  we  never  can  despise. 

Who  blames  it  but  the  envious  fool. 
The  old  and  disappointed  maid; 

Or  pupil  of  the  prudish  school. 
In  single  sorrow  doom'd  to  fade? 

Then  read,  dear  girl!  with  feeling  read, 
For  thou  wilt  ne'er  be  one  of  those; 

To  thee  in  vain  I  shall  not  plead 
In  pity  for  the  poet's  woes. 

He  was  in  sooth  a  genuine  bard: 
His  was  no  vain,  fictitious  flame: 

Like  his,  may  love  be  thy  reward, 
But  not.  thy  haplces  fate  the  game. 


♦Jt- 


^K 


^J- 


352  HOURS  or  IDLENESS. 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  LOVE. 

A  Bap/3iT0?  Se  x'^P^''-^^ 

'EfMTa  fjiovvou  )jx<t — AnACREON. 

AwAT  with  your  fictions  of  flimsy  romance; 

Those  tissues  of  falsehood  which  folly  has  wove! 
Give  me  the  mild  beam  of  the  soul-breathing  glance, 

Or  the  rapture  which  dwells  on  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Ye  rhymers,  whose  bosoms  with  fantasy  glow, 
Whose  pastoral  passions  are  made  for  the  grove: 

From  what  blest  inspirations  your  bonnets  would  flow, 
Could  you  ever  have  tasted  the  first  kiss  of  love! 

If  Apollo  should  e'er  his  assistance  refuse. 
Or  the  Nine  be  disposed  from  your  service  to  rove, 

Invoke  them  no  more,  bid  adieu  to  the  muse. 
And  try  the  effect  of  the  first  ki  s  of  love! 

I  hate  you,  ye  cold  compositions  of  art! 

Thouuh  prudes  may  condemn  me,  and  bigots  reprove, 
I  court  the  effusions  that  spring  from  the  heart, 

Which  throbs  with  delight  to  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

Tour  shepherds,  your  flocks,  those  fantastical  themes. 
Perhaps  may  amuse,  j^et  they  never  can  move: 

Arcadia  displays  but  a  region  of  dreams: 
What  are  visions  like  these  to  the  first  kiss  of  love? 

Oh!  cease,  to  affirm  that  man,  since  his  birth, 
From  Adam  till  now,  has  with  wretchedness  strove. 

Some  portion  of  paradise  still  is  on  earth. 
And  Eden  revives  in  the  first  kiss  of  love. 

When  age  chills  the  blood,  when  our  pleasunis  are  past— 
For  years  fleet  away  with  the  wings  of  the  dove — 

The  dearest  remembrance  will  still  be  the  last. 
Our  sweetest  memorial  the  first  kiss  of  love. 


ON  A   CHANGE    OF    MASTERS  AT  A   GREAT   PUBUC 
SCHOOL. 

Where  are  those  honors,  Ida,  once  your  own. 
When  Probus  flll'd  your  magisterial  throne? 
As  ancient  Rome,  fast  falling  to  disgrace, 
Hail'd  a  barbarian  in  her  Caesar's  place. 
So  you,  degenerate,  share  as  hard  a  fate. 
And  seat  Pomposus  where  your  Probus  sate. 
Of  narrow  brain,  yet  of  a  narrower  soul, 
Pomposus  holds  you  in  his  harsh  control; 
Pomposus,  by  no  social  virtue  sway'd. 
With  florid  jargon,  and  with  vain  parade; 
With  noisy  nonsense,  and  new-fangled  rules, 
Siich  as  were  ne'er  before  enforced  in  schools; 
Mistaking  pedantry  for  learning's  laws. 
He  governs,  eanction'd  bntby  sclf-epplatise; 


Mb 


■ih 


•IK 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  C53 

With  him  the  same  dire  fate  attending  Rome, 
Ill-fated  Ida!  soon  must  stamp  your  doom: 
Like  her  o'erthrown,  for  ever  lost  to  fame, 
No  trace  of  science  left  you,  but  the  name. 
July,  1805. 

TO  THE  DUKE  OF  DORSET.* 
Dorset!  whose  early  steps  with  mine  have  stray 'd, 
Exploring  every  path  of  Ida's  glade; 
Whom  still  affection  taught  me  to  defend, 
And  made  me  less  a  tyrant  than  a  friend, 
Though  the  harsh  custom  of  our  youthful  ban 
Bade  thee  obey,  and  gave  me  to  command  ;t 
Thee,  on  whose  head  a  few  short  years  will  shower 
The  gift  of  riches,  and  the  pride  of  power; 
E'en  now  a  name  illustrious  is  thine  own, 
Renown' d  in  rank,  not  far  beneath  the  throne. 
Yet,  Dorset,  let  not  this  seduce  thy  soul 
To  shun  fair  science,  or  evade  control. 
Though  passive  tutors,  fearful  to  dispraise^ 
The  titled  child,  Avhose  future  breath  may  raise, 
View  ducal  errors  with  indulgent  eyes. 
And  wink  at  faults  they  tremble  to  chastise. 

When  youthful  parasites,  who  bend  the  knee 
To  wealth,  their  golden  idol,  not  to  thee— 
And  even  in  simple  boyhood's  opening  dawn 
Some  slaves  are  found  to  flatter  and  to  fawn- 
When  these  declare  "  that  pomp  alone  should  wait 
On  one  by  birth  predestined  to  be  great; 
That  books  were  only  meant  for  drudging  fools, 
That  gallant  spirits  scorn  the  common  rules;" 
Believe  them  not;— they  point  the  path  to  shame, 
And  seek  to  blast  the  honors  of  thy  name. 
Turn  to  the  few  in  Ida's  early  throng. 
Whose  souls  disdain  not  to  condemn  the  wrong; 
Or  if,  amidst  the  comrades  of  thy  youth, 
None  dare  to  raise  the  sterner  voice  of  truth, 
Ask  thine  own  heart;  'twill  bid  thee,  boy,  forbear; 
For  well  I  know  that  virtue  lingers  there. 

Yes!  I  have  marked  thee  many  a  passing  day, 
But  now  new  scenes  invite  me  far  away; 
Yes!  I  have  mark'd  within  that  generous  mind 
A  soul,  if  well  matured,  to  bless  mankind. 

♦  In  looking  over  my  papers  to  select  a  few  additional  poems  for 
this  second  edition,  I  found  the  above  Unes,  which  I  had  totally  for 
gotten,  composed  in  the  summer  of  1805  a  short  time  previous  to 
my  departure  from  Harrow.  They  were  addressed  to  a  young  school' 
fellow  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  my  frequent  companion  in  soma 
rambles  through  the  neighboring  country;  however,  he  never  saw 
the  lines,  and  most  probjibly  never  will.  As,  on  are-perusal,  I  found 
them  not  worse  tlian  some  other  pieces  in  the  collection,  1  have  now 
published  them  for  the  fii-st  time,  after  a  slight  revision. 

t  At  every  public  school  the  junior  boys  are  completely  Bubservi- 
ert  to  the  upper  forms  till  they  attain  a  seat  in  the  higher  classes. 
From  this  state  of  probation,  very  properly,  no  rank  is  exempt,  but 
after  a  certain  period  they  command  in  turn  those  who  succeed. 

t  Allow  me  to  disclaim  any  personal  allusions,  even  the  most  dis- 
tant: 1  merelj^  mention  generally  what  is  too  often  the  weakness  of 
preceptors. 


ii- 


^ 

354  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Ahl  though  myself,  by  nature  haughty,  wild, 
Whom  Indiscretion  hail'd  her  favorite  child: 
Though  every  error  stamps  me  for  her  own, 
And  dooms  my  fall,  I  fain  would  fall  alone; 
Though  my  proud  heart  no  precept  now  can  tame, 
I  love  the  virtues  which  I  cannot  claim. 

'Tis  not  enough,  Avith  other  sons  of  power, 
To  gleam  the  lambent  meteor  of  an  hour; 
To  swell  some  peerage  page  in  feeble  pride. 
With  long-drawn  names  that  grace  no  page  beside; 
Then  share  with  titled  crowds  the  common  lot — 
In  life  just  gazed  at,  in  the  grave  forgot: 
While  nought  divides  thee  from  the  vulgar  dead, 
Except  the  dull  cold  stone  that  hides  thy  head, 
The  mouldering  'scutcheon,  or  the  herald's  roll, 
That  well-emblazon'd  but  neglected  scroll. 
Where  lords,  unhonor'd,  in  the  tomb  may  find 
One  spot,  to  leave  a  worthless  name  behind. 
There  sleep,  unnoticed  as  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  veil  their  dust,  their  follies,  and  their  faults, 
A  race,  with  old  armorial  lists  o'erspread. 
In  records  destined  never  to  be  read. 
Fain  would  I  view  thee,  with  prophetic  eyee, 
Exalted  more  among  the  good  and  wise, 
A  glorious  and  a  long  career  pursue, 
As  first  in  rank,  the  first  in  talent  too: 
Spurn  every  vice,  each  little  meanness  shun; 
Not  Fortune's  minion,  but  her  noblest  son. 

Turn  to  the  annals  of  a  former  day; 
Bright  are  the  deeds  thine  earlier  sires  display. 
One,  though  a  courtier,  lived  a  man  of  worth. 
And  call'd,  proud  boast!  the  British  drama  forth. 
Another  view,  not  less  renown'd  for  wit; 
Alike  for  courts,  and  camps,  or  senates  fit; 
Bold  in  the  field,  and  favor'd  by  the  Nine; 
In  every  splendid  part  ordain'd  to  shine; 
Far,  far  distinguish'd  from  the  glittering  throng. 
The  pride  of  princes,  and  the  boast  of  song. 
Such  were  thy  fathers;  thus  preserve  their  name; 
Not  heir  to  titles  only,  but  to  fame. 
The  hour  draws  nigh,  a  few  brief  days  will  close. 
To  me,  this  little  scene  of  joys  and  woes; 
Each  knell  of  Time  now  warns  me  to  resign 
Shades  where  Hope,  Peace,  and  Friendship  all  were  mine: 
Hope,  that  could  vary  like  the  rainbow's  hue, 
And  gild  their  pinions  as  the  moments  flew; 
Peace,  that  reflection  never  frown'd  away. 
By  dreams  of  ill  to  cloud  some  future  day; 
Friendship,  whose  truth  let  childhood  only  tell; 
Alas  I  they  love  not  long,  who  love  so  well. 
To  these  adieul  nor  let  me  linger  o'er 
Scenes  hail'd,  as  exiles  hail  their  native  shore, 
Receding  slowly  through  the  dark-blue  deep. 
Beheld  by  eyes  that  mourn,  yet  cannot  weep. 

Dorset,  farewell!  I  will  not  ask  one  part 
Of  sad  remembrance  in  bo  young  a  heart; 

♦i *♦ 


1805. 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

The  coming  morrow  from  thy  youthful  mind 
Will  sweep  my  name,  nor  leave  a  trace  behind. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  in  some  maturer  year, 
Since  chance  has  thrown  us  in  the  self-same  sphere, 
Since  the  same  senate,  nay,  the  same  debate, 
May  one  day  claim  our  sullrage  for  the  state, 
We  hence  may  meet,  and  pass  each  other  by, 
With  faint  regard,  or  cold  and  distant  eye. 
For  me,  in  future,  neither  friend  nor  foe, 
A  stranger  to'thyself  thy  weal  or  woe. 
With  thee  no  more  again  I  hope  to  trace 
The  recollection  of  our  early  race; 
No  more,  as  once  in  social  hours  rejoice. 
Or  hear,  unless  in  crowds,  thy  well-known  voice: 
Still,  if  the  wishes  of  a  heart  untaught 
To  veil  those  feelings  which  perchance  it  ought. 
If  these — but  let  me  cease  the  lengthen'd  etrain — 
Oh!  if  these  wishes  are  not  breathed  in  vain, 
The  guardian  seraph  who  directs  thy  fate  — 

Will  leave  thee  glorious,  as  he  found  thee  great. 


855 


FRAGMENT, 

WRITTEN  SHORTLY  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE  OF   MISS   CIIAWORTH. 

Hills  of  Annesley!  bleak  and  barren, 
Where  my  thoughtless  childhood  stray'd, 

How  the  northern  tempests,  warring, 
Howl  above  thy  tufted  shade! 

Now  no  more,  the  hours  beguiling, 

Former  favorite  haunts  I  see: 
Now  no  more  my  Mary  smiling 

Makes  ye  seem  a  heaven  to  me. 
1805. 


GRANTA:    A  MEDLEY. 

Apyvpe'ai?  \6y\at<TL  fJid\ov  ksX  ttolvtcl  KpaT7J<rats« 

OhI  rould  Le  Sage's  demon  gift* 

Be  realized  at  my  desire, 
This  night  ray  trembling  form  he'd  lift 

To  place  it  on  St.  Mary's  spire. 

Then  would,  unroof'd,  old  Granta's  halls 

Pedantic  inmates  full  display: 
Fellows  who  dream  on  lawn  or  stalls. 

The  price  of  venal  votes  to  pay. 

Then  would  I  view  each  rival  wight. 

Petty  and  Palmerston  survey; 
Who  canvass  there  with  all  their  might 

Against  the  next  elective  day. 

*  The  Diable  Boiteux  of  Le  Saere,  where  Asmodeus,  the  demon, 
places  Don  Cleofas  on  an  elevated  situation,  and  unroofs  the  houses 
fof.  inspection. 


ih 


^h 


U56  _  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Lo!  candidates  and  voters  lie 
All  luU'd  in  sleep,  a  goodly  number: 

A  race  renown'd  for  piety, 
Whose  conscience  won't  disturb  their  slumber. 

Lord  H ,  indeed,  may  not  demur; 

Fellows  are  sage  reflecting  men: 
They  know  preferment  can  occur 

But  very  seldom— now  and  then. 

They  know  the  Chancellor  has  got 

Some  pretty  livings  in  disposal: 
Each  hopes  that  one  may  be  his  lot, 

And  therefore  smiles  on  his  proposal. 

Now  from  the  soporific  scene 
ril  turn  mine  eye,  as  night  grows  later, 

To  view,  unheeded  and  unseen, 
The  studious  sons  of  Alma  Mater. 

_     There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp 
The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp; 
Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises. 

He  surely  well  deserves  to  gain  them, 
With  all  the  honors  of  his  college, 

Who,  striving  hardly  to  obtain  them, 
Thus  seeks  unprofitable  knowledge; 

Who  sacrifices  hours  of  rest 

To  scan  precisely  metres  Attic; 
Or  agitates  his  anxious  breast 

In  solving  problems  mathematic: 

Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Scale,* 
Or  puzzles  o'er  the  deep  triangle; 

Deprived  of  many  a  wholesome  meal: 
In  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle :t 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use; 
Preferring  to  the  letter'd  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypothenuse.J 

Still,  harmless  are  these  occupations. 
That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 

Compared  with  other  recreations, 
Which  bring  together  the  imprudent; 

Whose  daring  revels  shock  the  sight, 

When  vice  and  infamy  combine, 
When  dninkenness  and  dice  invite, 

As  every  sense  is  steep'd  In  wine. 


♦* 


♦  Geale'9  pubHcation  on  Greek  Metres  displays  considerable  talent 
and  iiiReniiitv,  bnt,  ns  mi(?ht  be  expected  in  so  difflcult  a  work,  is 
not  remarkable  for  accuracy. 

tThe  Latin  of  the  schools  is  of  the  canine  species,  and  not  very 
Intelligible. 

JThe  di.scovery  of  Pythagoras,  that  the  square  of  tbehyix>thenuse 
is  equal  to  the  squarCvS  of  the  other  two  sides  of  a  right-angled 
triangle. 


^H- 


J 

I 

u 

-H 

S' 

H 

r^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.                             357 

Not  so  the  methodistic  crew, 
Who  plans  for  reformation  lay: 

In  humble  attitude  they  sue, 
And  for  the  sins  of  others  pray: 

Forgetting  that  their  pride  of  spirit, 
Their  exultation  in  their  trial, 

Detracts  most  largely  from  the  merit 
Of  all  their  boasted  self-denial. 

'Tis  mom — from  these  I  turn  my  sight. 

What  scene  is  this  which  meets  the  eye? 
A  numerous  crowd,  array'd  in  white. 

Across  the  green  in  numbers  fly. 

Loud  rings  in  air  the  chapel  bell; 

'Tis  hush'd:— what  sounds  are  these  I  hear? 
The  organ's  soft  celestial  swell 

Rolls  deeply  on  the  list'ning  ear. 

To  this  is  join'd  the  sacred  song. 
The  royal  minstrel's  hallow'd  strain; 

Though  he  who  hears  the  music  long 
Will  never  wish  to  hear  again. 

Our  choir  would  scarcely  be  excused, 
Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners; 

All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 
To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

U  David  when  his  toils  were  ended, 
Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended — 
In  furious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 

The  luckless  Israelites,  when  taken 
By  some  inhuman  tyrant's  order. 

Were  asked  to  sing,  by  joy  forsaken, 
On  Babylonian  river's  border. 

Oh!  had  they  sung  in  notes  like  these, 
Inspired  by  stratagem  or  fear. 

They  might  have  set  their  hearts  at  ease, 
The  devil  a  soul  had  stay'd  to  hear. 

^ 

But  if  I  scribble  longer  now. 
The  deuce  a  soul  will  stay  to  read: 

My  pen  is  blunt,  my  ink  is  low, 
'Tis  almost  time  to  stop,  indeed. 

Therefore,  farewell,  old  Granta's  spires: 

No  more,  like  Cleofas,  I  fly: 
No  more  thy  theme  my  muse  inspires: 
The  reader  'b  tired,  and  so  am  1. 
1806. 

^  » 

i* 

X 

1.*. 

^^ 

P 

^ 

t 

^K 


■^58  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


ON  A  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  VILLAGE  AND  SCHOOL 
OF  HARROW-ON-THE-HILL. 

"  Oh!  mihi  praeteritos  referat  si  Jupiter  annos."— Virgil, 

Ye  scenes  of  my  childhood,  whose  loved  recollection 
Embitters  the  present,  compared  with  the  pact; 

Where  science  first  dawn'd  on  the  powers  of  reflection, 
And  friendships  were  form'd,  too  romantic  to  last; 

Where  fancy  yet  joys  to  trace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades,  in  friendship  and  mischief  allied. 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er-fading  resemblance. 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied! 

Again  I  revisit  the  hills  where  we  sported. 

The  streams  where  we  swam,  and  the  fields  where  we  fought; 
The  school  where,  loud  wam'd  by  the  bell,  we  resorted. 

To  pore  o'er  the  precepts  by  pedagogues  taught. 

Again  I  behold  where  for  hours  I  have  ponder'd, 

As  reclining,  at  eve,  on  yon  tombstone  I  lay; 
Or  round  the  steep  brow  of  the  churchyard  I  wander' d. 

To  catch  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun's  setting  ray. 

I  once  more  view  the  room,  with  spectators  surrounded, 
Where  as  Zanga,  I  trod  on  Alonzo  o'erthrown; 

While  to  swell  my  young  pride,  such  applauses  resounded, 
I  fancied  that  Mossop  himself  was  outshone.* 

Or,  as  Lear,  I  pour'd  forth  the  deep  imprecation, 
By  my  daughters  of  kingdom  and  reason  deprived; 

Till,  fired  by  loud  plaudits  and  self-adulation, 
I  regarded  myself  as  a  Garrick  revived. 

Ye  dreams  of  my  boyhood,  how  much  I  regret  yout 

Unfaded  your  memory  dwells  in  my  breast; 
Though  sad  and  deserted,  I  ne'er  can  forget  you: 

Your  pleasures  may  still  be  in  fancy  possest. 

To  Ida  full  oft  may  remembrance  restore  me. 
While  fate  shall  the  shades  of  the  future  imroll  I 

Since  darkness  o'ershadows  the  prospect  before  me, 
More  dear  is  the  beam  of  the  past  to  my  soul. 

But  if,  through  the  course  of  the  years  which  await  me, 
Some  new  scene  of  pleasure  should  open  to  view, 

I  will  say,  while  with  rapture  the  thought  shall  elate  me, 
"  OhI  such  were  the  days  which  my  infancy  knew!" 

1806. 


TO  M- 


Oh!  did  those  eyes,  instead  of  fire. 

With  bright  but  mild  afCection  shine, 
Though  they  might  kindle  less  desire. 

Love,  more  than  mortal,  would  be  thine. 

*  Mossop,  a  contemporary  of  Qarrlck,  fumouK  for  his  performance 
of  Zanga. 


r 


180G. 


4 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

For  thou  art  form'd  so  heavenly  fair, 
Howe'er  those  orbs  may  wildly  beam, 

We  must  admire,  but  still  despair; 
That  fatal  glance  forbids  esteem. 

When  Nature  stamp'd  thy  beauteous  birth, 
So  much  perfection  in  thee  shone, 

She  fear'd  that,  too  divine  for  earth, 
The  skies  might  claim  thee  for  their  own: 

Therefore,  to  guard  her  dearest  work, 
Lest  angels  might  dispute  the  prize. 

She  bade  a  secret  lightning  lurk 
Within  those  once  celestial  eyes. 

These  might  the  boldest  sylph  appall, 
When  gleaming  with  meridian  blaze: 

Thy  beauty  must  enrapture  all; 
But  who  can  dare  thine  ardent  gaze? 

'Tis  said  that  Berenice's  hair 
In  stars  adorns  the  vault  of  heaven; 

But  they  would  ne'er  permit  thee  there, 
Thou  wouldst  so  far  outshine  the  seven. 

For  did  those  eyes  as  planets  roll. 
Thy  sister-lights  would  scarce  appear: 

E'en  suns,  which  systems  now  control, 
Would  twinkle  dimly  through  their  sphere.* 


359 


TO  WOMAN. 


r^ 


Woman!  experience  might  have  told  me, 

That  all  must  love  thee  who  behold  thee; 

Surely  experience  might  have  taught 

Thy  firmest  promises  are  nouglit: 

But,  placed  in  all  thy  charms  before  me, 

All  I  forget,  but  to  adore  thee. 

O  Memory!  thou  choicest  blessing 

When  join'd  with  hope,  when  still  possessing; 

But  how  much  cursed  by  every  lover 

When  hope  is  fled,  and  passion  's  over. 

Woman;  that  fair  and  fond  deceiver, 

How  fond  are  striplings  to  believe  her! 

How  throbs  the  pulse  when  first  we  view 

The  eye  that  rolls  in  glossy  blue, 

Or  sparkles  black,  or  mildly  throws 

A  beam  from  under  hazel  brows! 

How  quick  we  credit  every  oath, 

And  hear  her  plight  the  willing  troth! 

Fondly  we  hope  'twill  last  for  aye, 

When  lo!  she  changes  in  a  day. 

This  record  will  for  ever  stand, 

"Woman!  thy  vows  are  traced  in  sand."t 

*  "  Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
IIavin.ar  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes. 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return." — Shakspeare. 
t  This  line  is  almost  a  literal  translation  from  a  Spanish  proverb. 


* *^ 

SeO  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

TO  M.  S.  G. 

When  I  dream  that  you  love  me,  you'll  surely  forglv©^ 

Extend  not  your  anger  to  sleep; 
For  in  visions  alone  your  affection  can  live — 

I  rise,  and  it  leaves  me  to  weep. 

Then,  Morpheus!  envelop  my  faculties  fast, 

Shed  o'er  me  your  languor  benign; 
Should  the  dream  of  to-night  but  resemble  the  last, 

What  rapture  celestial  is  mine! 

They  tell  us  that  slumber,  the  sister  of  death, 

Mortality's  emblem  is  given: 
To  fate  how  I  long  to  resign  my  frail  breath. 

If  this  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven! 
Ah!  frown  not,  sweet  lady,  unbend  your  soft  brow, 

Nor  deem  me  too  happy  in  this; 
If  I  sin  in  my  dream,  I  atone  for  it  now, 

Thus  doom'd  but  to  gaze  upon  bliss. 

Though  in  visions,  sweet  lady,  perhaps  you  may  smile, 

Oh!  think  not  my  penance  deficient! 
When  dreams  of  your  presence  my  slumbers  beguile, 

To  awake  will  be  torture  sufficient. 


TO  MART, 

ON  EECEIVING  HER  PICTURE. 

This  faint  resemblance  of  thy  charms. 
Though  strong  as  mortal  art  could  give, 

My  constant  heart  of  fear  disarms, 
Revives  my  hopes,  and  bids  me  live. 

Here  I  can  trace  the  locks  of  gold 
Which  round  thy  snowy  forehead  wave. 

The  cheek  which  sprung *frora  beauty's  mould, 
The  lips  which  made  me  beauty's  slave. 

Here  I  can  trace — ah,  no!  that  eye. 

Whose  azure  floats  in  liquid  fire, 
Must  all  the  painter's  art  defy. 

And  bid  him  from  the  task  retire. 

Here  I  behold  its  beauteous  hue; 

But  where  's  the  beam  so  sweetly  straying, 
Which  gave  a  lustre  to  its  blue. 

Like  Luna  o'er  the  ocean  playing'/ 

Sweet  copy!  far  more  dear  to  me. 

Lifeless,  unfeeling  as  thou  art. 
Than  all  the  living  forms  could  be. 

Save  her  who  placed  thee  next  my  heart. 

She  placed  it,  sad,  with  needless  fear, 
Lest  time  might  shake  my  wavering  soul, 

Unconcious  that  her  image  there 
Held  every  sense  in  fast  control. 

** ^ ■■ *- 


4^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Through  hours,  through  years,  through  time, 
'twill  cheer* 

My  hope,  in  gloomy  moments,  raise; 
In  life's  last  conflict  'twill  appear, 

And  meet  my  fond  expiring  gaze. 


361 


TO  LESBIA. 


Lesbia!  since  far  from  you  I've  ranged, 
Our  souls  with  fond  affection  glow  not; 

Tou  say  'tis  I,  not  you,  have  changed, 
I'd  tell  you  why,  but  yet  I  know  not. 

Tour  polish'd  brow  no  cares  have  crost; 

And,  Lesbia!  we  are  not  much  older 
Since,  trembling,  first  my  heart  I  lost. 

Or  told  my  love,  with  hope  grown  bolder. 

Sixteen  was  then  our  utmost  age, 

Two  years  have  lingering  pass'd  away,  lovel 
And  now  new  thoughts  our  minds  engage. 

At  least  I  feel  disposed  to  stray,  love! 

'Tis  I  that  am  alone  to  blame, 
^       I  that  am  guilty  of  love's  treason; 
Since  your  sweet  breast  is  still  the  same. 
Caprice  must  be  my  only  reason. 

I  do  not,  love!  suspect  your  truth. 

With  jealous  doubt  my  bosom  heaves  not; 

Warm  was  the  passion  of  my  youth, 
One  trace  of  dark  deceit  it  leaves  not. 

No,  no,  my  flame  was  not  pretended; 

For,  oh!  I  loved  you  most  sincerely; 
And — ^though  our  dream  at  last  is  ended — 

My  bosom  still  esteems  you  dearly. 

No  more  we  meet  in  yonder  bowers; 

Absence  has  made  me  prone  to  roving! 
But  older,  firmer  hearts  than  ours 

Have  found  monotony  in  loving. 

Tour  cheek's  soft  bloom  is  unimpair'd. 
New  beauties  still  are  daily  bright' ning. 

Your  eye  for  conquest  beams  prepared. 
The  forge  of  love  s  resistless  lightning. 

Arm'd  thus,  to  make  their  bosoms  bleed, 
Many  will  throng  to  sigh  like  me,  love! 

More  constant  they  may  prove,  indeed; 
Fonder,  alas!  they  ne'er  can  be,  love! 


*iir 


r 


^ —^ ^ 

363  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WHO    HAD     BEEN    ALARMED    BY    A    BULLET    FIRED    BY    THE    AI> 
•THOR  WHILE  DISCHARGING  HIS  PISTOLS   IN  A  GARDEN. 

Doubtless,  sweet  girl!  the  hissing  lead, 

Wafting  destruction  o'er  thy  charms, 
And  hurtling*  o'er  thy  lovely  head, 

Has  flU'd  that  breast  with  fond  alarms. 

Surely  some  envious  demon's  force, 

Vex'd  to  behold  such  beauty  here, 
Impell'd  the  bullet's  viewless  course, 

Diverted  from  its  first  career.  ' 

Yes!  in  that  nearly  fatal  hour 

The  ball  obey'd  some  hell-born  guide; 
But  Heaven,  with  interposing  power. 

In  pity  tum'd  the  death  aside. 

Yet,  as  perchance  one  trembling  tear 

Upon  that  thrilling  bosom  fell, 
Which  I,  the  unconscious  cause  of  fear,  s 

Extracted  from  its  glistening  cell: 

Say,  what  dire  penance  can  atone 

For  such  an  outrage  done  to  thee? 
Arraign'd  before  thy  beauty's  throne, 

What  punishment  wilt  th'ou  decree? 

Might  I  perform  the  judge's  part, 

The  sentence  I  should  scarce  deplore; 
It  only  would  restore  a  heart 

Which  but  belong'd  to  thee  before. 

The  least  atonement  I  can  make 

Is  to  become  no  longer  free; 
Henceforth  I  breathe  but  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  Shalt  be  all  in  all  to  me.  * 

But  thou,  perhaps,  may'st  now  reject 

Such  expiation  of  my  guilt: 
Come,  then,  some  other  mode  elect; 

Let  it  be  death,  or  what  thou  wilt. 

Choose,  then,  relentless!  and  I  swear 

Nought  shall  thy  dread  decree  prevent; 
Yet  hold — one  little  word  forbear! 

Let  it  be  aught  but  banishment. 

*  This  word  is  used  by  Gray,  in  his  poem  to  the  Fatal  Sisters:— 
"  Iron  sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  through  the  darkened  air." 


I 


n 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


LOVE'S  LAST  ADIEU. 

'Aei,  6'  aei  /ote  <j>€vyeL — AnACREON. 

The  roses  of  love  glad  the  garden  of  life, 
Though  nurtured  'mid  Avecds  dropping  pestilent  dew, 

Till  time  crops  the  leaves  with  unmerciful  knife. 
Or  prunes  them  for  ever,  in  love's  last  adieu! 

In  vain  with  endearments  we  soothe  the  sad  heart, 

In  vain  do  we  vow  for  an  age  to  be  true; 
The  chance  of  an  hour  may  command  us  to  part, 

Or  death  disunite  us  in  love's  last  adieu! 

Still  Hope,  breathing  peace  through  the  grief-swollen  breast. 
Will  whisper,  "  Our  meeting  we  yet  may  renew:" 

With  this  dream  of  deceit  half  our  sorrow  's  represt. 
Nor  taste  we  the  poison  of  love's  last  adieu! 

Oh!  mark  you  yon  pair:  in  the  sunshine  of  youth 
Love  twined  round  their  childhood  his  flowers  as  they  grew; 

They  flourish  awhile  in  the  season  of  truth, 
Till  chill'd  by  the  winter  of  love's  last  adieu! 

Sweet  lady!  why  thus  doth  a  tear  steal  its  way 
Down  a  cheek  which  outrivals  thy  bosom  in  hue? 

Yet  why  do  I  ask? — to  distraction  a  prey, 
Thy  reason  has  perish'd  with  love's  last  adieu! 

Oh!  who  is  yon  misanthrope,  shunning  mankind? 

From  cities  to  caves  of  the  forest  he  flew: 
There,  raving,  he  howls  his  complaint  to  the  wind; 

The  mountains  reverberate  love's  last  adieu! 

Now  hate  rules  a  heart  which  in  love's  easy  chains 
Once  passion's  tumultuous  blandishments  knew, 

Despair  now  inflames  the  dark  tide  of  his  veins; 
He  ponders  in  frenzy  on  love's  last  adieu! 

HoAV  he  envies  the  wretch  with  a  soul  wrapt  in  steel! 

His  pleasures  are  scarce,  yet  his  troubles  are  few, 
Who  laughs  at  the  pang  that  he  never  can  feel, 

And  dreads  not  the  anguish  of  love's  last  adieu! 

Youth  flies,  life  decays,  even  hope  is  o'ercast; 

No  more  with  love's  former  devotion  we  sue: 
He  spreads  his  young  wing,  he  retires  with  the  blast; 

The  shroud  of  affection  is  love's  last  adieu! 

In  this  life  of  probation  for  rapture  divine, 

Astrea  declares  that  some  penance  is  due; 
From  him  who  has  worshipp'd  at  love's  gentle  shrine, 

The  atonement  is  ample  in  love's  last  adieu! 

Who  kneels  to  the  god,  on  his  altar  of  light 

Must  myrtle  and  cypress  alternately  strew: 
His  myrtle,  an  emblem  of  purest  delight; 

His  cypress  the  garland  of  love's  last  adieu! 


■ib 


r 


^ 


iK 


364 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


DAMiETAS. 

In  law  an  infant,  and  in  years  a  boy,* 

In  mind  a  slave  to  every  vicious  joy; 

From  every  sense  of  shame  and  virtue  wean'd; 

In  lies  an  adept,  in  deceit  a  fiend; 

Versed  in  hypocrisy,  while  yet  a  child; 

Fickle  as  wind,  of  inclinations  wild; 

Woman  his  dupe,  his  heedless  friend  a  tool; 

Old  in  the  world,  though  scarcely  broke  from  school; 

Damaetas  ran  through  all  the  maze  of  sin, 

And  found  the  goal  when  others  just  begin: 

Even  still  conflicting  passions  shake  his  soul, 

And  bid  him  drain  the  dregs  of  pleasure's  bowl; 

But,  pall'd  with  vice,  he  breaks  his  former  chain, 

And  what  was  once  his  bliss  appears  his  bane. 


TO  MARION.* 


Marion!  why  that  pensive  brow? 

What  disgust  to  life  hast  thou? 

Change  that  discontented  air; 

Frowns  become  not  one  so  fair. 

'Tis  not  love  disturbs  thy  rest, 

Love  's  a  stranger  to  thy  breast; 

He  in  dimpling  smiles  appears, 

Or  mourns  in  sweetly  timid  tears. 

Or  bends  the  languid  eyelid  down, 

But  shuns  the  cold  forbidding  frown. 

Then  resume  thy  former  fire. 

Some  will  love,  and  all  admire; 

While  that  icy  aspect  chills  us, 

Nought  but  cool  indifference  thrills  us. 

Wouldst  thou  wandering  hearts  beguile, 

Smile  at  least,  or  seem  to  smile. 

Eyes  like  thiue  were  never  meant 

To  hide  their  orbs  in  dark  restraint; 

Spite  of  all  thou  fain  wouldst  say, 

Still  in  truant  beams  they  play. 

Thy  lips — but  here  my  modest  Muse 

Her  impulse  chaste  must  needs  refuse: 

She  blushes,  curt'sies,  frowns — in  short,  she 

Dreads  lest  the  subject  should  transport  me; 

And  flying  off  in  search  of  reason. 

Brings  prudence  back  in  proper  season. 

All  I  shall  therefore  say  (whate'er 

I  think,  is  neither  here  nor  there) 

Is,  that  such  lips,  of  looks  endearing, 

Were  form'd  for  better  things  than  sneering: 

Of  smoothing  compliments  divested, 

Advice  at  least  's  disinterested; 

Such  is  my  artless  song  to  thee, 

From  all  the  flow  of  flattery  free; 

*  In  law,  every  person  is  an  infant  who  has  not  attained  the  ago 
of  twenty -one. 


^^ 


ih 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

CounBel  like  mine  is  like  a  brother's. 
My  heart  is  given  to  some  others; 
That  is  to  say,  unskill'd  to  cozen, 
It  shares  itself  among  a  dozen. 
Marion,  adieu!  oh,  pr'ythee,  slight  not 
This  warning,  though  it  may  delight  not; 
And,  lest  my  precepts  be  displeasing 
To  those  who  think  remonstrance  teasing, 
At  once  I'll  tell  thee  our  opinion 
Concerning  woman's  soft  dominion: 
Howe'er  we  gaze  with  admiration 
On  eyes  of  blue  or  lips  carnation, 
Howe'er  the  flowing  locks  attract  us, 
Howe'er  those  beauties  may  distract  us, 
Still  fickle,  we  are  prone  to  rove. 
These  cannot  fix  our  souls  to  love: 
It  is  not  too  severe  a  stricture 
To  say  they  form  a  pretty  picture; 
But  wouldst  thou  see  the  secret  chain 
Which  binds  us  in  your  humble  train, 
To  hail  you  queens  of  all  creation, 
Know,  in  a  word,  'tis  Animation. 


TO  A  LADY, 

WHO  PRESENTED  TO  THE  AUTHOR  A  LOCK  OP  HAIR  BRAIDED 
WITH  HIS  OWN,  AND  APPOINTED  A  NIGHT  IN  DECEMBER  TO 
MEET  HIM  IN  THE  GARDEN. 

These  locks,  which  fondly  thus  entwine, 
In  firmer  chains  our  hearts  confine 
Than  all  the  unmeaning  protestations 
Which  swell  with  nonsense  love  orations. 
Our  love  is  flx'd,  I  think  we've  proved  it, 
Nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  art  have  moved  it; 
Then  wherefore  should  we  si^h  and  whine, 
With  groundless  jealousy  repme. 
With  silly  whims,  and  fancies  frantic, 
Merely  to  make  our  love  romantic? 
Why  should  you  weep  like  Lydia  Languish, 
And  fret  with  self -created  anguish; 
Or  doom  the  lover  you  have  chosen, 
On  winter  nights  to  sigh  half  frozen; 
In  leafless  shades  to  sue  for  pardon. 
Only  because  the  scene  's  a  garden? 
For  gardens  seem,  by  one  consent. 
Since  Shakspeare  set  the  precedent, 
Since  Juliet  first  declared  her  passion. 
To  form  the  place  of  assignation.* 

*  In  the  above  little  piece,  the  author  has  been  accused  by  some 
candid  readers  of  introducing  the  name  of  a  lady  from  whom  he 
was  soraehundrerl  miles  distant  at  the  time  this  was  written:  and 

Cr  Juliet,  who  has  slept  so  lon^  in  "  the  tomb  of  all  the  Capulets," 
been  converted,  with  a  trimng  alteration  of  her  name,  into  an 
English  damsel,  walkinjj  in  a  garden  of  their  own  creation,  during 
the  month  of  December,  in  a  village  where  the  author  never  passed  a 
winter.  Such  has  been  the  candor  of  some  ingenious  critics.  We 
would  advise  these  liberal  commentators  ou  taste  and  arbiters  of 
decorum  to  read  Shakspeare, 


ii* 


^ ^ 

.  866  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Ohl  would  some  modem  muse  inspire^ 
And  seat  her  by  a  sea-coal  fire; 
Or  had  the  bard  at  Christmas  written, 
And  laid  the  scene  of  love  in  Britain, 
He  surely,  in  commiseration, 
Had  changed  the  place  of  declaration. 
In  Italy  I've  no  objection: 
Warm  nights  are  proper  for  reflection; 
But  here  our  climate  is  so  rigid, 
That  love  itself  is  rather  frigid: 
Think  on  our  chilly  situation. 
And  curb  this  rage  for  imitation; 
Then  let  us  meet,  as  oft  we've  done, 
Beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun; 
Or,  if  at  midnight  I  must  meet  you. 
Within  your  mansion  let  me  greet  you: 
There  we  can  love  for  hours  together. 
Much  better  in  such  snowy  weather. 
Than  placed  in  all  the  Arcadian  groves 
That  ever  witness'd  rural  loves; 
Then,  if  my  passion  fail  to  please. 
Next  night  I'll  be  content  to  freeze; 
No  more  I'll  give  a  loose  to  laughter, 
But  curse  my  fate  for  ever  after.* 


OSCAR  OF  ALVA.+ 

A  TALE. 


How  sweetly  shines  through  azure  skies 

The  lamp  of  heaven  on  Lora's  shore; 
Where  Alva's  hoary  turrets  rise. 

And  hear  the  din  of  arms  no  more. 
But  often  has  yon  rolling  moon 

On  Alva's  casques  of  silver  play'd; 
And  view'd  at  midnight's  silent  noon, 

Her  chiefs  in  gleaming  mail  array'd. 

And  on  the  crimson'd  rocks  beneath, 

Which  scowl  o'er  ocean's  sullen  flow, 
Pale  in  the  scatter'd  ranks  of  death. 

She  saw  the  gasping  warrior  low; 
While  many  an  eye  which  ne'er  again 

Could  mark  the  rising  orb  of  day, 

*  Having  heard  that  a  very  severe  and  indelicate  censure  has  been 
passed  on  the  above  poem,  I  beg  leave  to  reply  in  a  quotation  from 
an  admired  work,  "Carr's  Stranger  in  France:"— "As  we  were  con- 
templating a  painting  on  a  large  scale,  in  which,  among  other 
figures,  is  the  uncovered  whole  length  of  a  warrior,  a  prudish-look- 
ing lady,  who  seemed  to  have  touched  the  age  of  desperation,  after 
having  attentively  surveyed  it  through  her  glass,  observed  to  her 

Sirty,  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  indeeoium  in  that  picture, 
adame  S,  shrewdly  whispered  in  my  ear,  that  the  indeconmi  was 
in  the  remark." 

t  The  catastrophe  of  this  tale  was  suggpsted  by  the  story  of  "  Jero- 
nyme  and  Lorenzo,"  in  the  first  volume  of  Schiller's  "Armenian:  or. 
The  Ohost-Seer."  It  also  bears  some  resemblance  to  a  scene  in  the 
third  act  of  "  Macbeth. " 

♦A *♦ 


*iir 


4k 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Turn'd  feebly  from  the  gory  plain, 
Beheld  in  death  her  fading  ray. 

Once  to  those  eyes  the  lamp  of  Love, 
They  blest  her  dear  propitious  light; 

But  now  she  glimmer'd  from  above, 
A  sad,  funereal  torch  of  night. 

Faded  is  Alva's  noble  race, 
And  gray  her  towers  are  seen  afar. 

No  more  her  heroes  urge  the  chase, 
Or  roll  the  crimson  tide  of  war. 

But  who  was  last  of  Alva's  clan? 

Why  grows  the  moss  on  Alva's  stone? 
Her  towers  resound  no  steps  of  man, 

They  echo  to  the  gale  alone. 

And  when  that  gale  is  fierce  and  high, 
A  sound  is  heard  in  yonder  hall: 

It  rises  hoarsely  through  the  sky, 
And  vibrates  o'er  the  mouldering  wall. 

Tes,  when  the  eddying  tempest  sighs, 
It  shakes  the  shield  of  Oscar  brave; 

But  there  no  more  his  banners  rise, 
No  more  his  plumes  of  sable  wave. 

Fair  shone  the  sun  on  Oscar's  birth. 
When  Angus  hail'd  his  eldest  bom; 

The  vassals  round  their  chieftain's  hearth 
Crowd  to  applaud  the  happy  mom. 

They  feast  upon  the  mountain  deer, 
The  pibroch  raised  its  piercing  note: 

To  gladden  more  their  highland  cheer. 
The  strains  in  martial  numbers  float: 

And  they  who  heard  the  war-notes  wild, 
Hoped  that  one  day  the  pibroch's  strain 

Should  play  before  the  hero's  child 
While  he  should  lead  the  tartan  train. 

Another  year  is  quickly  past. 
And  Angus  hails  another  son; 

His  natal  day  is  like  the  last. 
Nor  soon  the  jocund  feast  was  done. 

Taught  by  their  sire  to  bend  the  bow, 
On  Alva's  dusky  hills  of  wind, 

The  boys  in  childhood  chased  the  roe, 
And  left  their  hounds  in  speed  behind. 

But  ere  their  years  of  youth  are  o'er. 
They  mingle  in  the  ranks  of  war; 

They  lightly  wheel  the  bright  claymore, 
And  send  the  whistling  arrow  far. 

Dark  was  the  flow  of  Oscar's  hair. 
Wildly  it  stream'd  along  the  gale; 

But  Allan's  locks  were  bright  and  fair, 
And  pensive  seem'd  his  cheek,  and  pale. 


367 


■JK 


368  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

But  Oscar  own'd  a  hero's  soul, 
His  dark  eye  shone  through  beams  of  truth; 

Allan  had  early  learn'd  control, 
And  smooth  his  words  had  been  from  youth. 

Both,  both  were  brave:  the  Saxon  spear 

Was  shiver'd  oft  beneath  their  steel; 
And  Oscar's  bosom  scorn 'd  to  fear, 

But  Oscar's  bosom  knew  to  feel; 

While  Allan's  soul  belied  his  form, 

Unworthy  with  such  charms  to  dwell: 
Keen  as  the  lightning  of  the  storm. 

On  foes  his  deadly  vengeance  fell. 

Trom  high  Southannon's  distant  tower 

Arrived  a  young  and  noble  dame; 
With  Kenneth's  lands  to  form  her  dower, 

Glenalvon's  blue-eyed  daughter  came; 

And  Oscar  claim' d  the  beauteous  bride, 

And  Angus  on  his  Oscar  smiled; 
It  soothed  the  father's  feudal  pride 

Thus  to  obtain  Glenalvon's  child. 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song! 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

See  how  the  heroes'  blood-red  plumes 

Assembled  wave  in  Alva's  hall; 
Each  youth  his  varied  plaid  assumes, 

Attending  on  their  chieftain's  call. 

It  is  not  war  their  aid  demands. 

The  pibroch  plays  the  song  of  peace; 
To  Oscar's  nuptials  throng  the  bands, 

Nor  yet  the  sounds  of  pleasure  cease. 

But  where  is  Oscar?  sure  'tis  late: 

Is  this  a  bridegroom's  ardent  flame? 
While  thronging  guests  and  ladies  wait, 

Nor  Oscar  nor  his  brother  came. 

At  length  young  Allan  join'd  the  bride; 

"  Why  comes  not  Oscar?"  Angus  said: 
"  Is  he  not  here?"  the  youth  replied; 

"  With  me  he  roved  not  o'er  the  glade. 

"  Perchance,  forgetful  of  the  day, 

'Tis  his  to  chase  the  bounding  roe; 
Or  ocean's  waves  prolong  his  stay; 

Tet  Oscar's  bark  is  seldom  slow." 

"  Oh,  no!"  the  anguish'd  sire  rejoln'd, 

"  Nor  chase  nor  wave  my  boy  delay; 
Would  he  to  Mora  seem  unkind? 

Would  aught  to  her  impede  his  way? 

♦«_ fi^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

"Oh,  search,  ye  chiefs!  oh,  search  aroundl 
Allan,  with  these  through  Alva  fly; 

Till  Oscar,  till  ray  son  is  found. 
Haste,  haste,  nor  dare  attempt  reply." 

All  is  confusion— through  the  vale 
The  name  of  Oscar  hoarsely  rings, 

It  rises  on  the  murmuring  gale, 
Tin  night  expands  her  dusky  wings; 

It  breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
But  echoes  through  her  shades  in  vain, 

It  sounds  through  morning's  misty  light. 
But  Oscar  comes  not  o'er  the  plain. 

Three  days,  three  sleepless  nights,  the  Chief 
For  Oscar  search 'd  each  mountain  cave  I 

Then  hope  is  lost;  in  boundless  grief, 
His  locks  in  gray  torn  ringlets  wave. 

"Oscar,  my  son!— thou  God  of  heaven 
Restore  the  prop  of  sinking  age! 

Or  if  that  hope  no  more  is  given. 
Yield  his  assassin  to  my  rage: 

"  Yes,  on  some  desert  rocky  shore 
My  Oscar's  whiten'd  bones  must  lie, 

Then  grant,  thou  God!  I  ask  no  more. 
With  him  his  frantic  sire  may  die! 

"Yet  he  may  live— away,  despair! 

Be  calm,  my  soul!  he  yet  may  live; 
To  arraign  my  fate,  my  voice  forbear! 

0  Godl  my  impious  prayer  forgive. 

"What,  if  he  live  for  me  no  more, 

1  sink  forgotten  in  the  dust. 
The  hope  of  Alva's  age  is  o'er; 

Alas!  can  pangs  like  these  be  just?" 

Thus  did  the  hapless  parent  mourn, 
Till  Time,  which  soothes  severest  woe, 

Had  bade  serenity  return. 
And  made  the  tear-drop  cease  to  flow. 

For  still  some  latent  hope  survived 
That  Oscar  might  once  more  appear: 

His  hope  now  droop'd  and  now  revived, 
Till  Time  had  told  a  tedious  year. 

Davs  roll'd  along,  the  orb  of  light 
Again  had  run  his  destined  race, 

No  Oscar  bless'd  his  father's  sight, 
And  sorrow  left  a  fainter  trace. 

For  youthful  Allan  still  remain'd, 

And  now  his  father's  only  joy: 
And  Mora's  heart  was  quickly  gain'd. 

For  beauty  crown'd  the  fair-hair'd  boy. 


*it 


r 


370  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

She  thought  that  Oscar  low  vras  laid, 
And  Allan's  face  was  wondrous  fair: 

If  Oscar  lived,  some  other  maid 
Had  claim'd  his  faithless  bosom's  care. 

And  An^us  said,  if  one  year  more 
In  fruitless  hope  was  pass'd  away. 

His  fondest  scruples  should  be  o'er, 
And  he  would  name  their  nuptial  day. 

Slow  roll'd  the  moons,  but  blest  at  last 
Arrived  the  dearly  destined  mom; 

The  year  of  anxious  trembling  past. 
What  smiles  the  lovers'  cheeks  adorn! 

Hark  to  the  pibroch's  pleasing  note! 

Hark  to  the  swelling  nuptial  song! 
In  joyous  strains  the  voices  float. 

And  still  the  choral  peal  prolong. 

Again  the  clan,  in  festive  crowd. 
Throng  through  the  gate  of  Alva's  hall; 

The  sounds  of  mirth  re-echo  loud, 
And  all  their  former  joy  recall. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  darken'd  brow 
Glooms  in  the  midst  of  general  mirth? 

Before  his  eyes'  far  fiercer  glow 
The  blue  flames  curdle  o'er  the  hearth. 

Dark  is  the  robe  which  wraps  his  form, 
And  tall  his  plume  of  gory  red; 

His  voice  is  like  the  rising  storm. 
But  light  and  trackless  is  his  tread. 

'Tis  noon  of  night,  the  pledge  goes  round, 
The  bridegroom's  health  is  deeply  quafi'd; 

With  shouts  the  vaulted  roofs  resound, 
And  all  combine  to  hail  the  draught. 

Sudden  the  stranger-chief  arose. 
And  all  the  clamorous  crowd  are  hush'd; 

And  Angus'  cheek  with  wonder  glows, 
And  Mora's  tender  bosom  blush'd. 

"Old  man!"  he  cried,  "this  pledge  is  donel 
Thou  saw'st  'twas  duly  drunk  by  me: 

It  hail'd  the  nuptials  of  thy  son: 
Now  will  I  claim  a  pledge  from  thee. 

"  While  all  around  is  mirth  and  joy, 
To  bless  thy  Allan's  happy  lot. 

Say,  hadst  thou  ne'er  another  boy? 
Say,  why  should  Oscar  be  forgot?" 

"Alas!"  the  hapless  sire  replied. 
The  big  tear  starting  as  he  spoke, 

"  When  Oscar  left  my  hall,  or  died, 
This  aged  heart  was  almost  broke. 


k 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  871 

"  Thrice  has  the  earth  revolved  her  course 
Since  Oscar's  form  has  bless'd  my  sight: 

And  Allan  is  my  last  resource, 
Since  martial  Oscar's  death  or  flight." 

"  'Tis  well,"  replied  the  stranger  stem, 

And  fiercely  flash 'd  his  rolling  eye; 
"Thy  Oscar's  fate  I  fain  would' learn: 

Perhaps  the  hero  did  not  die. 

"  Perchance,  if  those  whom  most  he  loved 
Would  call,  thy  Oscar  might  return; 

Perchance  the  chief  has  only  roved; 
For  him  thy  beltane  yet  may  burn.* 

"  Fill  hi^h  the  bowl  the  table  round, 
We  will  not  claim  the  pledge  by  stealth; 

With  wine  let  every  cup  be  crown'd; 
Pledge  me  departed  Oscar's  health." 

"With  all  my  soul,"  old  Angus  said. 

And  fiird  his  goblet  to  the  brim; 
"  Here  's  to  my  boy!  alive  or  dead, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  son  like  him." 

"  Bravely,  old  man,  this  health  has  sped; 

But  why  does  trembling  Allan  stand? 
Come,  drink  remembrance  of  the  dead. 

And  raise  thy  cup  with  firmer  hand." 

The  crimson  glow  of  Allan's  face 

Was  tum'd  at  once  to  ghastly  hue; 
The  drops  of  death  each  other  chase 

Adown  in  agonizing  dew. 

Thrice  did  he  raise  the  goblet  high, 

And  thrice  his  lips  refused  to  taste; 
For  thrice  he  caught  the  stranger's  eye 

On  his  with  deadly  fury  placed. 

"And  is  it  thus  a  brother  hails 
A  brother's  fond  remembrance  here? 

If  thus  affection's  strength  prevails, 
What  might  we  not  expect  from  fear?" 

Roused  by  the  sneer,  he  raised  the  bowl, 
"  Would  Oscar  now  could  share  our  mirth!" 

Internal  fear  appall'd  his  soul; 
He  said,  and  dash'd  the  cup  to  earth. 

"  'Tis  he!  I  hear  my  murderer's  voice!" 
Loud  shrieks  a  darkly  gleaming  form; 

"A  murderer's  voice!"  the  roof  replies, 
And  deeply  swells  the  bursting  storm. 

*  Beltane  Tree,  a  Highland  festival  on  the  first  of  May,  held  near 
fires  lighted  for  the  occasion. 


T 


■«-^ 


^t 


873  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

The  tapers  wink,  the  chieftains  shrink, 

The  stranger  's  gone — amidst  the  crew 
A  form  was  seen  in  tartan  green, 

And  tall  the  shade  terrific  grew. 

His  waist  was  bound  with  a  broad  belt  round. 

His  plume  of  sable  stream' d  on  high; 
But  his  breast  was  bare,  with  the  red  wounds  there 

And  fix'd  was  the  glare  of  his  glassy  eye. 

And  thrice  he  smiled,  with  his  eye  so  wild, 

On  Angus  bending  low  the  knee; 
And  thrice  he  frown'd  on  a  chief  on  the  ground. 

Whom  shivering  crowds  with  horror  see. 

The  bolts  loud  roll,  from  pole  to  pole 

The  thunders  through  the  welkin  rin^. 
And  the  gleaming  form,  through  the  mist  of  the  storm, 

Was  borne  on  high  by  the  whirlwind's  wing. 

Cold  was  the  feast,  the  revel  ceased; 

Who  lies  upon  the  stony  floor? 
Oblivion  press'd  old  Angus'  breast. 

At  length  his  life-pulse  throbs  once  more. 

"  Away!  away!  let  the  leech  essay 

To  pour  the  light  on  Allan's  eyes:" 
His  sand  is  done — his  race  is  run; 

Oh!  never  more  shall  Allan  rise! 

But  Oscar's  breast  is  cold  as  clay, 

His  locks  are  lifted  by  the  gale: 
And  Allan's  barbed  arrow  lay 

With  him  in  dark  Glentanar's  vale. 

And  whence  the  dreadful  stranger  came, 

Or  who,  no  mortal  wight  can  tell; 
But  no  one  doubts  the  form  of  flame, 

For  Alva's  sons  knew  Oscar  well. 

Ambition  nerved  young  Allan's  hand, 

Exulting  demons  wing'd  his  dart; 
While  Envy  waved  her  burning  brand. 

And  pour'd  her  venom  round  his  heart. 

Swift  is  the  shaft  from  Allan's  bow; 

Whose  streaming  life-blood  stains  his  side? 
Dark  Oscar's  sable  crest  is  low, 

The  dart  has  drunk  his  vital  tide. 

And  Mora's  eye  could  Allan  move. 

She  bade  his  wounded  pride  rebel; 
Alas!  that  eyes  which  beam'd  with  love 

Should  urge  the  soul  to  deeds  of  hell. 

Lo!  seest  thou  not  a  lonely  tomb 

Which  rises  o'er  a  warrior  dead? 
It  glimmers  through  the  twilight  gloom; 

Oh  I  that  is  Allan's  nuptial  bed. 

-» *♦ 


^h 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Far,  distant  far,  the  noble  grave 
Which  held  his  clan's  great  ashes  stood; 

And  o'er  his  corse  no  banners  wave. 
For  they  were  stain'd  with  kindred  blood. 

What  minstrel  gray,  what  hoary  bard, 
Shall  Allan's  deeds  on  harp-strings  raise? 

The  song  is  glory's  chief  reward, 
But  who  can  strike  a  murderer's  praise? 

Unstrung,  untouched,  the  harp  must  stand, 
No  minstrel  dare  the  theme  awake; 

Guilt  would  benumb  his  palsied  hand. 
His  harp  in  shuddering  chords  would  break. 

No  lyre  of  fame,  no  hallow'd  verse. 
Shall  sound  his  glories  high  in  air: 

A  dying  father's  bitter  curse, 
A  brother's  death-groan  echoes  there. 


iK 


373 


THE  EPISODE  OF  NISUS  AND  EURYALUS. 

A  PARAPHRASE  FROM  THE  ^NEID,   LIB.   IX. 

Nisus,  the  guardian  of  the  portal,  stood. 

Eager  to  gild  his  arms  with  hostile  blood; 

Well  skiird  in  fight  the  quivering  lance  to  wield, 

Or  pour  his  arrows  through  the  embattled  field: 

From  Ida  torn,  he  left  his  sylvan  cave, 

And  sought  a  foreign  home,  a  distant  grave. 

To  watch  the  movements  of  the  Daunian  host, 

With  him  Euryalus  sustains  the  post; 

No  lovelier  mien  adorn 'd  the  ranks  of  Troy, 

And  beardless  bloom  yet  graced  the  gallant  boy; 

Though  few  the  seasons  of  his  youthful  life. 

As  yel  a  novice  in  the  martial  strife, 

'Twas  his,  with  beauty,  valor's  gifts  to  share— 

A  soul  heroic,  as  his  form  was  fair: 

These  bum  with  one  pure  flame  of  generous  love; 

In  peace,  in  war,  united  still  they  move; 

Friendship  and  glory  form  their  joint  reward; 

And  now  combined  they  hold  their  nightly  guard. 

"  What  god,"  exclaim'd  the  first,  "  instills  this  fire? 
Or,  in  itself  a  god,  what  great  desire' 
My  laboring  soul,  with  anxious  thought  oppress'd, 
Abhors  the  station  of  inglorious  rest; 
The  love  of  fame  with  this  can  ill  accord. 
Be  't  mine  to  seek  for  glory  with  my  sword. 
Seest  thou  yon  camp,  with  torches  twinkling  dim. 
Where  drunken  slumbers  wrap  each  lazy  limb? 
Where  confidence  and  ease  the  watch  disdain, 
And  drowsy  Silence  holds  her  sable  reign? 
Then  hear  my  thought:— In  deep  and  sullen  grief 
Our  troops  and  leaders  mourn  their  absent  chief: 
Now  could  the  gifts  and  promised  prize  be  thine 
(The  deed,  the  danger,  and  the  fame  be  mine), 


■ih 


t 


374  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Were  this  decreed,  beneath  yon  rising  mound, 
Methinks,  an  easy  path  perchance  were  found: 
Which  pass'd,  I  speed  my  way  to  Pallas'  walls, 
And  lead  ^neas  from  Evander's  halls." 

With  equal  ardor  fired,  and  warlike  joy, 
His  glowing  friend  address'd  the  Dardan  boy:— 
"  These  deeds,  my  Nisus,  shalt  thou  dare  alone? 
Must  all  the  fame,  the  peril,  be  thine  own? 
Am  I  by  thee  despised,  and  left  afar, 
As  one  unfit  to  share  the  toils  of  war? 
Not  thus  his  son  the  great  Opheltes  taught; 
Not  thus  my  sire  in  Argive  combats  fought; 
Not  thus,  when  Ilion  fell  by  heavenly  hate, 
I  track'd  ^neas  through  the  walks  of  fate: 
Thou  know'st  my  deeds,  my  breast  devoid  of  fear, 
And  hostile  life-drops  dim  my  gory  spear. 
Here  is  a  soul  with  hope  immortal  bums, 
And  life,  ignoble  life,  for  glory  spurns. 
Fame,  fame  is  cheaply  eam'd  by  fleeting  breath: 
The  price  of  honor  is  the  sleep  of  death." 

Then  Nisus: — "  Calm  thy  bosom's  fond  alarms, 
Thy  heart  beats  fiercely  to  the  din  of  arms. 
More, dear  thy  worth  and  valor  than  my  own, 
I  swear  by  him  who  fills  Olympus'  throne! 
So  may  I  triumph  as  I  speak  the  truth. 
And  clasp  again  the  comrade  of  my  youth! 
But  should  If  all, — and  he  who  dares  advance 
Through  hostile  legions  must  abide  by  chance, — 
If  some  Rutulian  arm,  with  adverse  blow, 
Should  lay  the  friend  who  ever  loved  thee  low. 
Live  thou,  such  beauties  I  would  fain  preserve, 
Thy  budding  years  a  Icngthen'd  term  deserve. 
When  humbled  in  the  dust,  let  some  one  be 
Whose  gentle  eyes  will  shed  one  tear  for  me; 
Whose  manly  arm  may  snatch  me  back  bv  force, 
Or  wealth  redeem  from  foes  my  captive  corse; 
Or,  if  my  destiny  these  last  deny, 
If  in  the  spoiler's  power  my  ashes  lie. 
Thy  pious  care  may  raise  a  simple  tomb, 
To  mark  thy  love,  and  signalize  my  doom. 
Why  should  thy  doting  wretched  mother  weep 
Her  only  boy,  reclined  in  endlesei  sleep? 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  the  tempest's  fury  dared, 
Who,  for  thy  sake,  war's  deadly  peril  shared; 
Who  braved  what  woman  never  braved  before, 
And  left  her  native  for  the  Latian  shore." 
"  In  vain  you  damp  the  ardor  of  my  soul," 
Replied  Euryalus:  "  it  scorns  control! 
Hence,  let  us  haste!" — their  brother  guards  arose, 
Roused  by  their  call,  nor  court  again  repose; 
The  pair,  buoy'd  up  on  Hope's  exulting  wing, 
Their  stations  leave,  and  speed  to  seek  the  king. 

Now  o'er  the  earth  a  solemn  stillness  ran, 
And  luird  alike  the  cares  of  brute  and  man; 

^ : ffi^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  375 

Save  where  the  Dardan  leaders  nightly  hold 
Alternate  converse,  and  their  plans  unfold. 
On  one  great  point  the  council  are  agreed, 
An  instant  message  to  their  prince  decreed; 
Each  lean'd  upon  the  lance  he  well  could  wield, 
And  pois'd  with  easy  arm  his  ancient  shield; 
When  Nisus  and  his  friend  their  leave  request 
To  offer  something  to  their  high  behest. 
With  anxious  tremors,  yet  unawed  by  fear. 
The  faithful  pair  before  the  throne  appear: 
lulus  greets  them;  at  his  kind  command, 
The  elder  first  address' d  the  hoary  band. 

"  With  patience  "  (thus  Hyrtacides  began) 
"Attend,  nor  judge  from  youth  our  humble  plan. 
Where  yonder  beacons  half  expiring  beam. 
Our  slumbering  foes  of  future  conquests  dream. 
Nor  heed  that  we  a  secret  path  have  traced. 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  portal  placed, 
Beneath  the  covert  of  the  blackening  smoke, 
Whose  shade  securely  our  design  will  cloak  I 
If  you,  ye  chiefs,  and  iortune  will  allow. 
We'll  bend  our  course  to  yonder  mountain's  brow. 
Where  Pallas'  walls  at  distance  meet  the  sight, 
Seen  o'er  the  glade,  when  not  obscured  by  night; 
Then  shall  ^neas  in  his  pride  return. 
While  hostile  matrons  raise  their  offspring's  urn; 
And  Latian  spoils  and  purpled  heaps  of  dead 
Shall  mark  the  havoc  of  our  hero's  tread. 
Such  is  our  purpose,  not  unknown  the  way; 
Where  yonder  torrent's  devious  waters  stray, 
Oft  have  we  seen,  when  hunting  by  the  stream. 
The  distant  spires  above  the  valleys  gleam." 

Mature  in  years,  for  sober  wisdom  famed. 
Moved  by  the  speech,  Alethes  here  exclaim'd: 
"Ye  parent  gods!  who  rule  the  fate  of  Troy, 
Still  dwells  the  Dardan  spirit  in  the  boy; 
When  minds  like  these  in  striplings  thus  ye  raise, 
Yours  is  the  godlike  act,  be  yours  the  praise; 
In  gallant  youth,  my  fainting  hopes  revive, 
And  Ilion's  wonted  glories  still  survive." 
Then  in  his  warm  embrace  the  boys  he  press'd, 
And  quivering,  strain 'd  them  to  his  aged  breast; 
With  tears  the  burning  cheek  of  each  bedew'd. 
And,  sobbing,  thus  his  first  discourse  renew'd: 
"What  gift,  my  countrymen,  what  martial  prize 
Can  ye  bestow,  which  you  may  not  despise? 
Our  deities  the  first  best  boon  have  given — 
Internal  virtues  are  the  gift  of  Heaven. 
What  poor  rewards  can  bless  your  deeds  on  earth, 
Doubtless  await  such  young,  exalted  worth, 
^neas  and  Ascanius  shall  combine 
To  yield  applause  far,  far  surpassing  mine." 
lulus  then: — "  By  all  the  powers  abovcl 
By  those  Penates  who  my  country  love! 


*iir 


JK 


376  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

By  hoary  Vesta's  sacred  fane,  I  swear, 

My  hopes  are  all  in  you,  ye  generous  pairl 

Restore  my  father  to  my  grateful  sight. 

And  all  my  sorrows  yield  to  one  delight. 

Nisus!  two  silver  goblets  are  thine  own, 

Saved  from  Arisba's  stately  domes  overthrown! 

My  sire  secured  them  on  that  fatal  day. 

Nor  left  such  bowls  an  Argive  robber's  prey: 

Two  massy  tripods,  also,  shall  be  thine; 

Two  talents  polish'd  from  the  glittering  mine; 

An  ancient  cup,  which  Tyrian  Dido  gave. 

While  yet  our  vessels  press'd  the  Punic  wave: 

But  when  the  hostile  chiefs  at  length  bow  down, 

When  great  ^neas  wears  Hesperia's  crown. 

The  casque,  the  buckler,  and  the  fiery  steed 

Which  Tumus  guides  with  more  than  mortal  speed, 

Are  thine;  no  envious  lot  shall  then  be  cast, 

I  pledge  my  word,  irrevocably  past: 

Nay  more,  twelve  slaves,  and  twice  six  captive  dames, 

To  soothe  thy  softer  hours  with  amorous  flames, 

And  all  the  realms  which  now  the  Latins  sway. 

The  labors  of  to-night  shall  well  repay. 

But  thou,  my  generous  youth,  whose  tender  years 

Are  near  my  own,  whose  worth  my  heart  reveres, 

Henceforth  affection,  sweetly  thus  begun. 

Shall  join  our  bosoms  and  our  souls  in  one; 

Without  thy  aid,  no  glory  shall  be  mine; 

Without  thy  dear  advice,  no  great  design; 

Alike  through  life  esteem'd,  thou  godlike  boy, 

In  war  my  bulwark,  and  in  peace  my  joy." 


To  him  Euryalus: — "No  day  shall  shame 
The  rising  glories  which  from  this  I  claim. 
Fortune  may  favor,  or  the  skies  may  frown. 
But  valor,  spite  of  fate,  obtains  renown. 
Yet,  ere  from  hence  our  eager  steps  depart, 
One  boon  I  beg,  the  nearest  to  my  heart: 
My  mother,  spning  from  Priam's  royal  line. 
Like  thine  ennobled,  hardly  less  divine. 
Nor  Troy,  nor  king  Acestes'  realms  restrain 
Her  feeble  age  from  dangers  of  the  main; 
Alone  she  came,  all  selfish  fears  above, 
A  bright  example  of  maternal  love. 
Unknown  the  secret  enterprise  I  bravo. 
Lest  grief  should  bend  my  parent  to  the  grave; 
From  this  alone  no  fond  adieus  I  seek. 
No  fainting  mother's  lips  have  press'd  my  cheek; 
By  gloomy  night  and  thy  right  hand  I  vow 
Her  parting  tears  would  shake  my  purpose  now: 
Do  thou,  my  prince,  her  failing  age  sustain. 
In  thee  her  much-loved  child  may  live  again; 
Her  dying  hours  with  pious  conduct  bless, 
Assist  her  wants,  relieve  her  fond  distress: 
So  dear  a  hope  must  all  my  soul  inflame. 
To  rise  in  glory,  or  to  fall  in  fame." 
Struck  with  a  filial  care  so  deeply  felt, 


^i- 


♦ii- 


+ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  377 

In  tears  at  once  the  Trojan  warriors  melt: 

Faster  than  all,  lulus'  eyes  o'erflow; 

Such  love  was  his,  and  such  had  been  his  woe. 

"All  thou  hast  asked,  receive,"  the  prince  replied; 

"  Nor  this  alone,  but  many  a  gift  beside. 

To  cheer  thy  mother's  years  shall  be  my  aim, 

Creusa's  style  but  wanting  to  the  dame.* 

Fortune  an  adverse,  wayward  course  may  run, 

But  bless'd  thy  mother  in  so  dear  a  son. 

Now,  by  my  life! — my  sire's  most  sacred  oath — 

To  thee  I  pledge  my  full,  my  firmest  troth. 

All  the  rewards  which  once  to  thee  were  vow'd, 

If  thou  shouldst  fall,  on  her  shall  be  bestow'd." 

Thus  spoke  the  weeping  prince,  then  forth  to  view 

A  gleaming  falchion  from  the  sheath  he  drew; 

Lycaon's  utmost  skill  had  graced  the  steel, 

For  friends  to  envy  and  for  foes  to  feel: 

A  tawny  hide,  the  Moorish  lion's  spoil, 

Slain  'midst  the  forest,  in  the  hunter's  toil, 

Mnestheus  to  guard  the  elder  youth  bestows, 

And  old  Alethes'  casque  defends  his  brows. 

Arm'd,  thence  they  go,  while  all  the  assembled  train, 

To  aid  their  cause,  Implore  the  gods  in  vain. 

More  than  a  boy  in  wisdom  and  in  grace, 

lulus  holds  amidst  the  chiefs  "his  place: 

His  prayer  he  sends;  but  what  can  prayers  avail, 

Lost  in  the  murmurs  of  the  sighing  gale! 


The  trench  is  pass'd,  and,  favor'd  by  the  night. 
Through  sleeping  foes  they  wheel  their  wary  niglit. 
When  shall  the  sleep  of  many  a  foe  be  o'er? 
Alas!  some  slumber  who  shall  wake  no  more! 
Chariots  and  bridles,  mix'd  with  arms,  are  seen; 
And  flowing  flasks,  and  scatter'd  troops  between: 
Bacchus  and  Mars  to  rule  the  camp  combine; 
A  mingled  chaos  this  of  war  and  wine. 
"  Now,"  cries  the  first,  "  for  deeds  of  blood  prepare, 
With  me  the  conquest  and  the  labor  share: 
Here  lies  our  path;  lest  any  hand  arise. 
Watch  thou,  while  many  a  dreaming  chieftain  dies: 
I'll  carve  our  passage  through  the  heedless  foe, 
And  clear  thy  road  with  many  a  deadly  blow." 
His  whispering  accents  then  the  youth  repress'd. 
And  pierced  proud  Rhamnes  through  his  panting  breast: 
Stretch'd  at  his  ease,  th'  Incautious  king  reposed; 
Debauch,  and  not  fatigiie,  his  eyes  had  "closed: 
To  Tumus  dear,  a  prophet  and  a  prince. 
His  omens  more  than  augur's  skill  evince; 
But  he,  who  thus  foretold  the  fate  of  all, 
Could  not  avert  his  own  untimely  fall. 
Next  Remus'  armor-bearer,  hapless,  fell. 
And  three  unhappy  slaves  the  carnage'  swell; 
The  charioteer  alon^  his  coursers'  sides 
Expires,  the  steel  his  sever' d  neck  divides; 

*  Tha  mother  of  lulus,  lost  on  the  night  when  Troy  was  taken. 


♦it 


^f- 


i. 


378  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

And,  last,  his  lord  is  number'd  with  the  dead: 
Bounding  convulsive,  flies  the  gasping  head; 
From  the  swoln  veins  the  blackening  torrents  poor; 
Stain'd  is  the  couch  and  earth  with  clotting  gore 
Young  Lamyrus  and  Lamus  next  expire. 
And  gay  Serranus,  fill'd  with  you+hful  fire; 
Half  the  long  night  in  childish  games  was  pass'd; 
Lull'd  by  the  potent  grape,  he  slept  at  last; 
Ah !  happier  far  had  he  the  mom  survey'd. 
And  till  Aurora's  dawn  his  skill  display'd. 

In  slaughter'd  fold,  the  keepers  lost  in  sleep, 
His  hungiy  fangs  a  lion  thus  may  steep; 
'Mid  the  sad  flock,  at  dead  of  night  he  prowls, 
"With  murder  glutted,  and  in  carnage  rolls: 
Insatiate  still,  through  teeming  herds  he  roams; 
In  seas  of  gore  the  lordly  tyrant  foams. 

Nor  less  the  other's  deadly  vengeance  came, 
But  falls  on  feeble  crowds  without  a  rame; 
His  wound  unconscious  Fadus  scarce  can  feel. 
Yet  wakeful  Rhaesus  sees  the  threatening  steel; 
His  coward  breast  behind  a  jar  he  hides, 
And  vainly  in  the  weak  defence  confides; 
Full  in  his  heart,  the  falchion  search'd  his  veins. 
The  reeking  weapon  bears  alternate  stains; 
Through  wine  and  blood,  commingling  as  they  flow 
One  feeble  spirit  seeks  the  shades  below. 
Now  where  Messapus  dwelt  they  bend  their  way, 
"Whose  fires  emit  a  faint  and  trembling  ray; 
There,  unconfined,  behold  each  grazing  steed, 
Unwatch'd,  unheeded,  on  the  herbage  feed: 
Brave  Nisus  here  arrests  his  comrade's  arm, 
Too  flush'd  with  carnage,  and  with  conquest  warm: 
"  Hence  let  us  haste,  the  dangerous  path  is  pass'd; 
Full  foes  enough  to-night  have  breathed  their  last: 
Soon  will  the  day  those  eastern  clouds  adorn; 
Now  let  us  speed,  nor  tempt  the  rising  mom." 

"With  silver  arms,  with  various  art  emboss'd, 
What  bowls  and  mantles  in  confusion  toss'd, 
They  leave  regardless!  yet  one  glittering  prize 
Attracts  the  younger  hero's  wandering  eyes; 
The  gilded  hamcss  Rhamnes'  coursers  felt. 
The  gems  which  stud  the  monarch's  golden  belt: 
This  from  the  pallid  corse  was  quickly  torn, 
Once  by  a  line  of  former  chieftains  worn. 
The  exulting  boy  the  studded  girdle  wears, 
Messapus'  helm  his  head  in  triumph  bears; 
Then  from  the  tents  their  cautious  steps  they  bend, 
To  seek  the  vale  where  safer  paths  extend. 

Just  at  this  hour,  a  band  of  Latian  horse 
To  Tumus'  camp  pursue  their  destined  course: 
While  the  slow  foot  their  tardy  march  delay, 
The  knights,  impatient,  spur  along  the  way: 


■Hi- 


^* ^ — 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  379 

Three  hundred  mail-clad  men,  by  Volscens  led, 

To  Turnus  with  their  master's  promise  sped: 

Now  they  approach  the  trench,  and  view  the  walls, 

When,  on  the  left,  a  light  reflection  falls; 

The  plunder'd  helmet,  through  the  waning  night, 

Sheds  forth  a  silver  radiance,  glancing  bright. 

Volscens  with  question  loud  the  pair  alarms: — 

**  Stand,  stragglers!  stand!  why  early  thus  in  arms? 

From  whence,  to  whom?" — He  meets  with  no  reply  I 

Trusting  the  covert  of  the  night,  they  fly: 

The  thicket's  depth  with  hurried  pace  they  tread. 

While  round  the  wood  the  hostile  squadron  spread. 

With  brakes  entangled,  scarce  a  path  between, 
Dreary  and  dark  appears  the  sylvan  scene: 
Euryalus  his  heavy  spoils  impede, 
The  boughs  and  winding  turns  his  steps  mislead; 
But  Nisus  scours  along  the  forest's  maze 
To  where  Latinus'  steeds  in  safety  graze. 
Then  backward  o'er  the  plain  his  eyes  extend, 
On  every  side  they  seek  his  absent  friend. 
"  O  Godl  my  boy,"  he  cries,  "  of  me  bereft, 
In  what  impending  perils  art  thou  left!" 
Listening  he  runs — above  the  waving  trees. 
Tumultuous  voices  swell  the  passing  breeze; 
The  war-cry  rises,  thundering  hoofs  around 
Wake  the  dark  echoes  of  the  trembling  ground. 
Again  he  turns,  of  footsteps  hears  the  noise; 
The  sound  elates,  the  sight  his  hope  destroys: 
The  hapless  boy  a  ruffian  train  surround, 
WhUe  lengthening  shades  his  weary  way  confound 
Him  with  loud  shouts  the  furious  knights  pursue. 
Struggling  in  vain,  a  captive  to  the  crew. 
What  can  his  friend  'gainst  thronging  numbers  dare? 
Ah!  must  he  rush,  his  comrade's  fate  to  share? 
What  force,  what  aid,  what  stratagem  essay, 
Back  to  redeem  the  Latian  spoiler's  prey? 
His  life  a  votive  ransom  nobly  give. 
Or  die  with  him  for  whom  he  wish'd  to  live? 
Poising  with  strength  his  lifted  lance  on  high. 
On  Luna's  orb  he  cast  his  frenzied  eye: — 
"  Goddess  serene,  transcending  every  star! 
Queen  of  the  sky,  whose  beams  are  seen  afar! 
By  night  heaven  owns  thy  sway,  by  day  the  grove. 
When,  as  chaste  Dian,  here  thou  deign 'st  to  rove: 
If  e'er  myself,  or  sire,  have  sought  to  grace 
Thine  altars  with  the  produce  of  the  chase. 
Speed,  speed  my  dart  to  pierce  yon  vaunting  crowd. 
To  free  my  friend,  and  scatter  far  the  proud." 
Thus  having  said,  the  hissing  dart  he  nung; 
Through  parted  shades  the  hurtling  weapon  sung; 
The  thirsty  point  in  Sulmo's  entrails  lay, 
Transflx'd  his  heart,  and  stretch'd  him  on  the  clay: 
He  sobs,  he  dies — the  troop  in  wild  amaze, 
Unconscious  whence  the  death,  with  horror  gaze; 
While  pale  they  stare,  through  Tagus'  temples  riven, 
A  Becond  shaft  with  equal  force  is  driven. 

♦« ih- 


-* *- 

380  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Fierce  Volscens  rolls  around  his  low'ring  eyes; 
Veil'd  by  the  night,  secure  the  Trojan  lies. 
Burning  with  wrath,  he  view'd  his  soldiers  fall: 
"  Thou  youth  accurst,  thy  life  shall  pay  for  alll" 
Quick  from  the  sheath  his  flaming  glaive  he  drew, 
And,  raging,  on  the  boy  defenceless  flew. 
Nisus  no  more  the  blackening  shape  conceals, 
Forth,  forth  he  starts,  and  all  his  love  reveals; 
Aghast,  confused,  his  fears  to  madness  rise. 
And  pour  these  accents,  shrieking  as  he  flies: 
"  Me,  me — ^your  vengeance  hurl  on  me  alone; 
Here  sheathe  the  steel,  my  blood  is  all  your  own. 
Ye  starry  spheres!  thou  conscious  Heaven  I  attest! 
He  could  not— durst  not — lo!  the  guile  confesti 
All,  all  was  mine, — his  early  fate  suspend; 
He  only  loved  too  well  his  hapless  friend: 
Spare,  spare,  ye  chiefs!  from  him  your  rage  remove; 
His  fault  was  friendship,  all  his  crime  was  love." 
He  pray'd  in  vain;  the  dark  assassin's  sword 
Pierced  the  fair  side,  the  snowy  bosom  gored; 
Lowly  to  earth  inclines  his  plume-clad  crest. 
And  sanguine  torrents  mantle  o'er  his  breast: 
As  some  young  rose,  whose  blossom  scents  the  air, 
Languid  in  death,  expires  beneath  the  share; 
Or  crimson  poppy,  sinking  with  the  shower, 
Declining  gently,  falls  a  fading  flower; 
Thus,  sweetly  drooping,  bends  his  lovely  head, 
And  lingering  beauty  hovers  round  the  dead. 

But  fiery  Nisus  stems  the  battle's  tide, 
Revenge  his  leader,  and  Despair  his  guide: 
Volscens  he  seeks  amidst  the  gathering  host, 
Volscens  must  soon  appease  his  comrade's  ghost; 
Steel,  flashing,  pours  on  steel,  foe  crowds  on  foe; 
Rage  nerves  his  arm,  fate  gleams  in  every  blow; 
In  vain  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds  he  bleeds, 
Nor  wounds,  nor  death,  distracted  Nisus  heeds; 
In  viewless  circles  wheel 'd,  his  falchion  flies, 
Nor  quits  the  hero's  grasp  till  Volscens  dies; 
Deep  in  his  throat  its  end  the  weapon  found, 
The  tyrant's  soul  fled  groaning  through  the  wound. 
Thus  Nisus  all  his  fond  affection  proved — 
Dying,  revenged  the  fate  of  him  he  loved; 
Then  on  his  bosom  sought  his  wonted  place. 
And  death  was  heavenly  in  his  friend's  embrace. 

Celestial  pair!  if  aught  my  verse  can  claim, 
Wafted  on  Time's  broad  pinion,  yours  is  fame! 
Ages  on  ages  shall  your  fate  admire, 
No  future  day  shall  see  your  names  expire, 
While  stands  the  Capitol,  immortal  dome! 
And  vanquish'd  millions  hail  their  empress,  Rome! 


♦li— ^ IH- 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  381 

TRANSLATION  FROM  THe'^IEDEA  OF  EURIPIDES. 
When  fierce  conflicting  passions  urge 

The  breast  where  love  is  wont  to  glow, 
What  mind  can  stem  the  stormy  surge 

Which  rolls  the  tide  of  human  woe? 
The  hope  of  praise,  the  dread  of  shame. 

Can  rouse  the  tortured  breast  no  more; 
The  wild  desire,  the  guilty  flame. 

Absorbs  each  wish  it  felt  before. 

But  if  affection  gently  thrills 

The  soul  by  purer  dreams  possest, 
The  pleasing  balm  of  mortal  ills 

In  love  can  soothe  the  aching  breast: 
If  thus  thou  comest  in  disguise. 

Fair  Venus!  from  thy  native  heaven. 
What  heart  unfeeling  would  despise 

The  sweetest  boon  the  gods  have  given? 

But  never  from  thy  golden  bow 

May  I  beneath  the  shaft  expire! 
Whose  creeping  venom,  sure  and  slow. 

Awakes  an  all-consuming  fire: 
Ye  racking  doubts,  ye  jealous  fears! 

With  others  wage  internal  war; 
Repentance,  source  of  future  tears, 

From  me  be  ever  distant  far! 

May  no  distracting  thoughts  destroy 

The  holy  calm  of  sacred  love! 
May  all  the  hours  be  wing'd  with  joy, 

Which  hover  faithful  hearts  above! 
Fair  Venus!  on  thy  myrtle  shrine 

May  I  with  some  fond  lover  si^h. 
Whose  heart  may  mingle  pure  with  mine — 

With  me  to  live,  with  me  to  die. 

My  native  soil!  beloved  before, 

Now  dearer  as  my  peaceful  home, 
Ne'er  may  I  quit  thy  rocky  shore, 

A  hapless  banish 'd  wretch  to  roam! 
This  very  day,  this  very  hour. 

May  I  resign  this  fleeting  breath! 
Nor  quit  my  silent  humble  bower; 

A  doom  to  me  far  worse  than  death. 

Have  I  not  heard  the  exile's  sigh? 

And  seen  the  exile's  silent  tear. 
Through  distant  climes  condemn 'd  to  fly, 

A  pensive  weary  wanderer  here? 
Ah!  hapless  dame!  no  sire  bewails,* 

No  friend  thy  wretched  fate  deplores, 

*  Medea,  who  accompanied  Jason  to  Corinth,  was  deserted  by  him 
for  the  daughter  of  Creon,  king:  of  that  city.  The  chorus  from  which 
this  is  taken  here  addresses  Medea;  though  a  considerable  liberty 
is  taken  with  the  original,  by  expanding  the  idea,  as  also  in  some 
other  parts  of  the  translation. 

♦* *-^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

No  kindred  voice  with  rapture  hails 

Thy  steps  within  a  stranger's  doors. 
Perish  the  fiend  whose  iron  heart, 

To  fair  atfectiou's  truth  unlcnown, 
Bids  her  he  fondly  loved  depart, 

Unpitied,  helpless,  and  alone; 
Who  ne'er  unlocks  with  silver  key* 

The  milder  treasures  of  his  soul — 
May  such  a  friend  be  far  from  me, 

-AjQd  ocean's  storms  between  us  rolll 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  A  COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 

High  in  the  midst,  surrounded  by  his  peers, 
Magnus  his  ample  front  sublime  uprears:t 
Placed  on  his  chair  of  state,  he  seems  a  god. 
While  Sophs  and  Freshmen  tremble  at  his  nod. 
As  all  around  sit  wrapt  in  speechless  gloom, 
His  voice  in  thunder  shakes  the  sounding  dome; 
Denouncing  dire  reproach  to  luckless  fools, 
Unskill'd  to  plod  in  mathematic  rules. 

Happy  the  youth  in  Euclid's  axioms  tried, 
Though  little  versed  in  any  art  beside; 
Who,  scarcely  skill 'd  an  English  line  to  pen, 
Scans  Attic  metres  with  a  critic's  ken. 
What,  though  he  knows  not  how  his  fathers  bled. 
When  civil  discord  piled  the  fields  with  dead, 
When  Edward  bade  his  conquering  bands  advance, 
Or  Henry  trampled  on  the  crest  of  France: 
Though  marvelling  at  the  name  of  Magna  Charta, 
Yet  well  he  recollects  the  law  of  Sparta: 
Can  tell  what  edicts  sage  Lycurgus  made, 
While  Blackstone  's  on  the  shell  neglected  laid; 
Of  Grecian  dramas  vaunts  the  deathless  fame, 
Of  Avon's  bard  remembering  scarce  the  name. 

Such  is  the  youth  whose  scientific  pate 
Class-honors,  medals,  fellowships,  await; 
Or  even,  perhaps,  the  declamation  prize. 
If  to  such  glorious  height  he  lift  his  eyes. 
But  lo!  no  common  orator  can  hope 
The  envied  silver  cup  within  his  scope. 
Not  that  our  heads  much  eloquence  require, 
Th'  Athenian's^  glowing  style,  or  Tully's  fire. 
A  manner  clear  or  warm  is  useless,  since 
We  do  not  try  by  speaking  to  convince. 

*  The  original  means,  literally,  *'  disclosing  the  bright  key  of  the 
mind." 

t  No  reflection  is  here  intended  aprainst  the  person  mentioned  un- 
der the  name  of  Magnus.  He  is  merely  represented  as  performing 
an  unavoidable  function  of  his  office.  Indeed,  sucli  an  attempt 
could  only- recoil  upon  myself;  as  that  gentleman  is  now  as  much 
distinguished  bj  his  eloquence,  and  the  dignified  propriety  with 
which  he  fills  his  situation,  as  he  was  in  his  younger  days  for  wit 
and  conviviality. 

t  Demosthenes. 


^ — ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  383 


« 


Be  other  orators  of  pleasing  proud: 

We  speak  to  please  ourselves,  not  move  the  crowd: 

Our  gravity  prefers  the  muttering  tone, 

A  proper  mixture  of  the  squeak  and  groan: 

No  borrow'd  grace  of  action  must  be  seen, 

The  slightest  motion  would  displease  the  Dean; 

Whilst  every  staring  graduate  would  prate 

Against  what  he  could  never  imitate. 

The  man  who  hopes  t'  obtain  the  promised  cup 
Must  in  one  posture  stand,  and  ne'er  look  up, 
Nor  stop,  but  rattle  over  every  word — 
No  matter -what,  so  it  can  not  be  heard. 
Thus  let  him  hurry  on,  nor  think  to  rest: 
Who  speaks  the  fastest  's  sure  to  speak  the  best; 
Who  utters  most  within  the  shortest  space 
May  safely  hope  to  win  the  wordy  race. 

The  sons  of  science  these,  who,  thus  repaid, 
Linger  in  ease  in  Granta's  sluggish  shade; 
Where  on  Cam's  sedgy  bank  supine  they  lie 
Unknown,  unhonor'd  live,  unwept  for  die: 
Dull  as  the  pictures  which  adorn  their  halls, 
They  think  all  learning  fix'd  within  their  walls; 
In  manners  rude,  in  foolish  forms  precise, 
All  modem  arts  affecting  to  despise; 
Yet  prizing  Bentley's,  Brunck's,  or  Person's  note,* 
More  than  the  verse  on  which  the  critic  wrote; 
Vain  as  their  honors,  heavy  as  their  ale, 
Sad  as  their  wit,  and  tedious  as  their  tale; 
To  friendship  dead,  though  not  untaught  to  feel 
When  Self  and  Church  demand  a  bigot  zeal. 
With  eager  haste  they  court  the  lord  of  power, 
Whether  'tis  Pitt  or  Petty  rules  the  hour;t 
To  him,  with  suppliant  smiles,  they  bend  the  head, 
While  distant  mitres  to  their  eyes  are  spread. 
But  should  a  storm  o'erwhelm  him  with  disgrace, 
They'd  fly  to  seek  the  next  who  fill'd  his  place. 
Such  are  the  men  who  learning's  treasures  guard! 
Such  is  their  practice,  such  is  their  reward  I 
This  much,  at  least,  we  may  presume  to  say — 
The  premium  6an't  exceed  the  price  they  pay. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  QUAKER. 

Sweet  girl !  though  only  once  we  met. 
That  meeting  I  shall  ne'er  forget; 
■     And  though  we  ne'er  may  meet  again, 
Remembrance  will  thy  form  retain. 
I  would  not  say,  "I  love,"  but  still 
My  senses  struggle  with  my  will: 

♦  Poi-son,  Greek  professor  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge;  a  man 
whose  po\Kers  of  mind  and  writings  may,  perhaps,  justify  their  pref- 
erence. 

t  Since  this  was  written,  Lord  Henry  Petty  has  lost  his  place,  and 
subsequently  (I  had  almost  said  consequently)  the  honor  of  repre- 
senting the  University.    A  fact  so  glaring  requires  no  comment. 


i- 


^ 

884  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  my  breast, 
My  thoughts  are  more  and  more  represt; 
In  vain  I  check  the  rising  sighs, 
Another  to  the  last  replies: 
Periiaps  this  is  not  love,  but  yet 
Our  meeting  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

"What  though  we  never  silence  broke, 

Our  eyes  a  sweeter  language  spoke; 

The  tongue  in  flattering  falsehood  deals, 

And  tells  a  tale  it  never  feels: 

Deceit  the  guilty  lips  impart. 

And  hush  the  mandates  of  the  heart; 

But  soul's  interpreters,  the  eyes, 

Spurn  such  restraint,  and  scorn  disguise. 

As  thus  our  glances  oft  conversed. 

And  all  our  bosoms  felt  rehearsed. 

No  spirit,  from  within,  reproved  us, 

Say  rather,  "  'twas  the  spirit  moved  us." 

Though  what  they  utter'd  I  repress, 

Yet  I  conceive  thou'lt  partly  guess; 

For  as  on  thee  my  memory  ponders, 

Perchance  to  me  thine  also  wanders. 

This  for  myself,  at  least,  I'll  say. 

Thy  form  appears  through  night,  through  day; 

Awake,  with  it  my  fancy  teems; 

In  sleep,  it  smiles  in  fleeting  dreams: 

The  vision  charms  the  hours  away, 

And  bids  me  curse  Aurora's  ray, 

For  breaking  slumbers  of  delight. 

Which  make  me  wish  for  endless  night. 

Since,  oh!  whate'er  my  future  fate, 

Shall  joy  or  woe  my  steps  await. 

Tempted  by  love,  by  storms  beset, 

Thine  image  I  can  ne'er  forget. 

Alas!  again  no  more  we  meet, 
No  more  our  former  looks  repeat; 
Then  let  me  breathe  this  parting  prayer, 
The  dictate  of  my  bosom's  care: 
"  May  Heaven  so  guard  my  lovely  Quaker, 
That  anguish  never  can  o'ertake  her; 
That  peace  and  virtue  ne'er  forsake  her; 
But  bliss  be  aye  her  heart's  partaker: 
Ohl  may  the  happy  mortal,  fated 
To  be,  by  dearest  ties,  related; 
For  her  each  hour  new  joys  discover, 
And  lose  the  husband  in  the  loverl 
May  that  fair  bosom  never  know 
What  'tis  to  feel  the  restless  woe, 
Which  stings  the  soul  with  vain  regret 
Of  him  who  never  can  forgetl" 
1806. 


*H it* 


^ m^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  385 


THE  CORNELIAN. 

No  specious  splendor  of  this  stone 

Endears  it  to  my  memory  ever; 
With  lustre  only  once  it  shone, 

And  blushes  modest  as  the  giver. 

Some,  who  can  sneer  at  friendship's  ties, 
Have  for  my  weakness  oft  reproved  me; 

Yet  still  the  simple  gift  I  prize — 
For  I  am  sure  the  giver  loved  me. 

He  offer'd  it  with  downcast  look. 
As  f eai'f ul  that  I  might  refuse  it; 

I  told  him  when  the  gift  I  took, 
My  only  fear  should  be  to  lose  it. 

This  pledge  attentively  I  view'd, 

And  sparkling  as  I  held  it  near, 
Methought  one  drop  the  stone  bedew'd, 

And  ever  since  I've  loved  a  tear. 

Still,  to  adorn  his  humble  youth, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  birth  their  treasures  yield; 
But  he  who  seeks  the  flowers  of  truth 

Must  quit  the  garden  for  the  field. 

'Tis  not  the  plant  uprear'd  in  sloth. 
Which  beauty  shows,  and  sheds  perfume; 

The  flowers  which  yield  the  most  of  both  ' 
In  Nature's  wild  luxuriance  bloom. 

Had  Fortune  aided  Nature's  care, 
For  once  forgetting  to  be  blind. 

His  would  have  been  an  ample  share, 
If  well  proportion'd  to  his  mind. 

But  had  the  goddess  clearly  seen, 
His  form  had  flx'd  her  fickle  breast; 

Her  countless  hoards  would  his  have  been, 
And  none  remain'd  to  give  thee  rest. 


AN  OCCASIONAL  PROLOGUE, 

DELIVEBED  PREVIOUS  TO  THE    PERFOKMANCE  OF   "THE  WHEEL 
OF  FORTUNE  "   AT    A  PRIVATE  THEATRE. 

Since  the  refinement  of  this  polish'd  age 
Has  swept  immoral  raillery  from  the  stage: 
Since  taste  has  now  expunged  licentious  wit, 
Which  stamp'd  disgrace  on  all  an  author  writ; 
Since  now  to  please  with  purer  scenes  we  seek. 
Nor  dare  to  call  the  blush  from  Beauty's  cheek. 
Oh!  let  the  modest  Muse  some  pity  claim, 
And  meet  indulgence,  though  she  find  not  fame. 
Still,  not  for  her  alone  we  wish  respect, 
Others  appear  more  conscious  of  defect: 
To-night  no  veteran  Roscii  you  behold, 
In  all  the  arts  of  scenic  action  old;  \ 


* 


^ • ^ 

386  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

No  Cooke,  BO  Kemble,  can  salute  you  here, 
No  Siddous  draw  the  sympathetic  tear; 
To-night  you  throng  to  witness  the  debut 
Of  embryo  actors,  to  the  Drama  new: 
Here,  then,  our  almost  unfledged  wings  we  try; 
Clip  not  our  pinions  ere  the  birds  can  fly: 
Failing  in  this  our  first  attempt  to  soar, 
Droopmg,  alas!  we  fall  to  rise  no  more. 
Not  one  poor  trembler  only  fear  betrays, 
"Who  hopes,  yet  almost  dreads  to  meet  your  praise; 
But  all  our  dramatia  pei'sonce  wait 
-    '    In  fond  suspense  this  crisis  of  their  fate. 
No  venal  views  our  progress  can  retard. 
Your  generous  plaudits  are  our  sole  reward: 
For  these,  each  Hero  all  his  power  displays, 
Each  timid  Heroine  shrinks  before  your  gaze. 
Surely  the  last  will  some  protection  find; 
None  to  the  softer  sex  can  prove  unkind: 
While  Youth  and  Beauty  form  the  female  shield, 
The  sternest  censor  to  the  fair  must  yield. 
Yet,  should  our  feeble  efforts  nought  avail, 
Should,  after  all,  our  beet  endeavors  fail, 
Still  let  some  mercy  in  your  bosoms  live, 
And,  if  you  can't  applaud,  at  least  forgive. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  FOX, 

THE  FOLLOWING  ILLIBERAL   IMPROMPTU  APPEARED  IN  A 
MORNING  PAPER. 

"  Our  nation's  foes  lament  on  Fox's  death, 
But  bless  the  hour  when  Pitt  resign'd  his  breath : 
These  feeluigs  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue. 
We  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it 's  due." 

TO  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THESE  PIECES  SENT  THE  FOL- 
LOWING REPLY. 

0  FACTIOUS  viper!  whose  envenom' d  tooth 
Would  mangle  still  the  dead,  perverting  truth; 
What  though  our  "  nation's  foes  "  lament  the  fate, 
With  generous  feeling,  of  the  good  and  great, 
Shall  dastard  tongues  essay  to  blast  the  name 
Of  him  whose  meed  exists  in  endless  fame? 
When  Pitt  expired  in  i)lenitude  of  power, 
Though  ill  success  obscured  his  dying  hour. 
Pity  her  dewy  wiugs  before  him  spread. 
For  noble  spirits  "  war  not  with  the  dead." 
His  friends,  in  tears,  a  last  sad  requiem  gave. 
As  all  his  errors  slumber  d  in  the  grave; 
He  sunk,  an  Atlas  bending  'neath  the  weight 
Of  cares  o'erwhelming  our  conflictmg  state: 
When,  lo!  a  Hercules  in  Fox  appeared. 
Who  lor  a  time  the  ruln'd  fabric  rear'd; 
He,  too,  is  fall'n,  who  Britain's  loss  supplied. 
With  him  our  fast-revivmg  hopes  have  died; 
Not  one  great  people  only  raise  his  urn. 


-t 


i 


— ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  387 

All  Europe's  far-extending  regions  mourn. 

"  These  feelings  wide,  let  sense  and  truth  undue, 

To  give  the  palm  where  Justice  points  it 's  due:" 

Yet  let  not  canker'd  Calumny  assail, 

Or  round  our  statesmen  wind  her  gloomy  veil. 

Fox!  o'er  whose  corse  a  mourning  world  must  weep, 

Whose  dear  remains  in  honor' d  marble  sleep; 

For  whom,  at  last,  e'en  hostile  nations  groan, 

While  friends  and  foes  alike  his  talents  own; 

Fox  shall  in  Britain's  future  annals  shine. 

Nor  e'en  to  Pitt  the  patriot's  palm  resign; 

Which  Envy,  wearing  Candor's  sacred  mask, 

For  Pitt,  and  Pitt  alone,  has  dared  to  ask. 


THE  TEAR. 


"  O  lachrymarum  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo;  quater 
Felix !  in  imo  qui  scatentem 
Pectore  te,  piaNympha,  sensit."— Gray. 

When  Friendship  or  Love  our  sympathies  move, 

When  Truth  in  a  glance  should  appear, 
The  lips  may  beguile  with  a  dimple  or  smile, 

But  the  test  of  affection  's  a  Tear. 

Too  oft  is  a  smile  but  the  hypocrite's  wile, 

To  mask  detestation  or  fear;  * 

Give  me  the  soft  sigh,  whilst  the  soul-telling  eye 

Is  dimm'd  for  a  time  with  a  Tear. 

Mild  Charity's  glow,  to  us  mortals  below, 

Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear; , 
Compassion  will  melt  where  this  virtue  is  felt, 

And  its  dew  is  diffused  in  a  Tear. 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail  with  the  blast  of  the  gale. 

Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer. 
As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave  which  may  soon  be  his  grave, 

The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  Tear. 

The  soldier  braves  death  for  a  fanciful  wreath 

In  Glory's  romantic  career: 
But  he  raises  the  foe  when  in  battle  laid  low, 

And  bathes  every  wound  with  a  Tear. 

If  with  high-bounding  pride  he  return  to  his  bride. 

Renouncing  the  gore-crimson'd  spear. 
All  his  toils  are  repaid,  when,  embracing  the  maid. 

From  her  eyelid  he  kisses  the  Tear. 

Sweet  scene  of  my  youth!  seat  of  Friendship  and  Truth,* 
'  Where  love  chased  each  fast-Heeting  year, 
Loth  to  leave  thee,  I  moum'd,  for  a  last  look  I  turn'd, 
But  thy  spire  was  scarce  seen  through  a  Tear. 

*  Harrow. 


*it 


-ft , 

3S8  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Though  my  vows  I  can  pour  to  my  Mary  no  more, 

My  Mary  to  love  once  so  dear; 
In  the  shade  of  her  bower  I  remember  the  hour 

She  rewarded  those  vows  with  a  Tear. 

By  another  possest,  may  she  live  ever  blest! 

Her  name  still  ray  heart  must  revere: 
With  a  sigh  I  resign  what  I  once  thought  was  mine, 

And  forgive  her  deceit  with  a  Tear. 

Te  friends  of  my  heart,  ere  from  you  I  depart, 
This  hope  to  my  breast  is  most  near: 

If  again  we  shall  meet  in  this  rural  retreat, 
May  we  meet,  as  we  part,  with  a  Tear. 

When  my  soul  wings  her  flight  to  the  regions  of  night. 
And  my  corse  shall  recline  on  its  bier, 

As  ye  pass  by  the  tomb  where  my  ashes  consume, 
Oh!  moisten  their  dust  with  a  Tear. 

Mav  no  marble  bestow  the  splendor  of  woe 

Which  the  children  of  vaaity  rear; 
No  fiction  of  fame  shall  blazon  my  name; 

All  I  ask — all  I  wish — is  a  Tear. 

October  26, 1806. 


REPLY  TO  SOME  VERSES 

OF  J.  M.  B.  riGof,  ESQ.,  ON  THE  CRUELTY  OP  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Why,  Pigot,  complain  of  this  damsel's  disdain, 

Why  thus  in  despair  do  you  fret? 
For  months  you  may  try,  yet,  believe  me,  a  sigh 

Will  never  obtain  a  coquette. 

Would  you  teach  her  to  love?  for  a  time  seem  to  rove: 

At  first  she  may  frown  in  a  pet; 
But  leave  her  awhile,  she  shortly  will  smile, 

And  then  you  may  kiss  your  coquette. 

For  such  are  the  airs  of  these  fanciful  fairs, 

They  think  all  our  homage  a  debt: 
Yet  a  partial  neglect  soon  takes  an  effect, 

And  humbles  the  proudest  coquette. 

Dissemble  your  pain,  and  lengthen  your  chain. 

And  seem  her  hauteur  to  regret; 
If  again  you  shall  sigh,  she  no  more  will  deny 

That  yours  is  the  rosy  coquette. 

If  still,  from  false  pride,  your  pangs  she  deride, 

This  whimsical  virgin  forget; 
Some  other  admire,  who  will  melt  with  your  fire, 

And  laugh  at  the  little  coquette. 

For  me,  I  adore  some  twenty  or  more. 

And  love  them  most  dearly;  but  yet, 
Though  my  heart  they  enthrall,  I'd  abandon  them  all 

Did  they  act  like  your  blooming  coquette. 


^^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  889 

No  longer  repine,  adopt  this  design, 
And  break  through  her  slight-woven  net; 

Away  with  despair,  no  longer  forbear 
To  fly  from  the  captious  coquette. 

Then  quit  her,  my  friend!  your  bosom  defend, 

Ere  quite  with  her  snares  you're  beset: 
Lest  your  deep-wounded  heart,  when  incensed  by  the  smart,, 

Should  lead  you  to  curse  the  coquette. 

October  27,  1806. 


TO  THE  SIGHING  STREPHON; 

Tour  pardon,  my  friend,  if  my  rhymes  did  offend, 

Your  pardon  a  thousand  times  o'er; 
From  friendship  I  strove  your  pangs  to  remove, 

But  I  swear  I  will  do  so  no  more. 

If 
Since  your  beautiful  maid  your  flame  has  repaid, 

No  more  I  your  folly  regret; 
She  's  now  most  divine,  and  I  bow  at  the  shrine 

Of  this  quickly  reformed  coquette. 

Yet  still  I  must  own,  I  should  never  have  known 
From  your  verses,  what  else  she  deserved; 

Your  pain  seem'd  so  great,  I  pitied  your  fate, 
As  your  fair  was  so  devilish  reserved. 

Since  the  balm-breathing  kiss  of  this  magical  miss 
Can  such  wonderful  transports  produce; 

Since  the  "world  you  forget,  when  your  lips  once  have  met. 
My  counsel  will  get  but  abuse. 

You  say,  when  "  I  rove,  I  know  nothing  of  love;" 

'Tis  true,  I  am  given  to  range: 
If  I  rightly  remember,  I've  loved  a  good  number, 

Yet  there  's  pleasure,  at  least,  in  a  change. 

I  will  not  advance,  by  the  rules  of  romance. 

To  humor  a  whimsical  fair; 
Though  a  smile  may  delight,  yet  a  frown  won't  affright, 

Or  drive  me  to  dreadful  despair. 

"Wliile  my  blood  is  thus  warm,  I  ne'er  shall  reform, 

To  mi::  in  the  Platonists'  school;        • 
Of  this  I  am  sure,  were  my  passion  so  pure. 

Thy  mistress  would  think  me  a  fool. 

And  if  I  should  shun  every  woman  for  one. 
Whose  image  must  fill  my  whole  breast — 

Whom  I  must  prefer,  and  sigh  but  for  her — 
What  an  insult  'twould  be  to  the  rest  I 

Now,  Strephon,  good-bye;  I  cannot  deny 

Your  passion  appears  most  absurd; 
Such  love  as  you  plead  is  pure  love  indeed, 

For  it  only  consists  in  the  word. 


■if* 


i 


W  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

TO  ELIZA. 

Eliza,  what  fools  are  the  Mussulman  sect, 
Who  to  woman  deny  the  soul's  future  existence; 

Could  they  see  thee,  Eliza,  they'd  own  theii*  defect, 
And  this  doctrine  would  meet  with  a  general  resistance. 

Had  their  prophet  possess' d  half  an  atom  of  sense, 
He  ne'er  would  have  women  from  paradise  driven; 

Instead  of  his  houris,  a  flimsy  pretence. 
With  women  alone  he  had  peopled  his  heaven. 

Yet  still,  to  increase  your  calamities  more. 

Not  content  with  depriving  your  bodies  of  spirit, 
He  allots  one  poor  husband  to  share  amongst  four! — 

With  souls  you'd  dispense;  but  this  last  who  could  bear  it? 
His  religion  to  please  neither  party  is  made; 

On  husbands  'tis  hard,  to  the  wives  most  uncivil; 
Still  I  can't  contradict,  what  so  oft  has  been  said, 

"  ThoughyWomen  are  angels,  yet  wedlock  's  the  devil." 


LACHIN  Y  GAIR.* 


Aw  AT,  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses  1 

In  you  let  the  minions  of  luxury  rove; 
Restore  me  the  rocks,  where  the  snowflake  reposes, 

Though  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love; 
Yet,  Caledonia,  beloved  are  thy  mountains. 

Round  their  white  summits  though  elements  war; 
Though  cataracts  foam  'stead  of  smooth-flowing  fountains, 

I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

Ah!  there  my  young  footsteps  in  infancy  wander'd: 

My  cap  was  the  bonnet,  my  cloak  was  the  plaid;t 
On  chieftains  long  perish'd  my  memory  ponder'd. 

As  daily  I  strode  through  the  pine-cover'd  glade. 
I  sought  not  my  home  till  the  day's  dying  glory 

Gave  place  to  the  rays  of  the  bright  polar  star; 
For  fancy  was  cheer'd  by  traditional  story. 

Disclosed  by  the  natives  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 
"Shades  of  the  dead!  have  I  not  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  night-rolling  breath  of  the  gale?" 
Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices. 

And  rides  on  the  wind  o'er  his  own  Highland  vale. 
Round  Loch  na  Garr  while  the  stormy  mist  gathers, 

Winter  presides  in  his  cold  icy  ear: 
Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers: 

They  dwell  in  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 

♦  Lachi'n  7/  Gair,  or,  as  it  is  pronouncod  in  tlio  Erse.  Loch  na  Garr, 
towers  proudly  pre-eminent  in  the  Northern  Hifjlilands,  near  Inver- 
cauld.  One  of  our  modern  tourists  mentions  it  as  the  highest  moun- 
tain, perhaps,  in  Great  Britain.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  sublime  and  picturesque  amongst  our  "  Caledonian 
Alps."  Its  appearance  is  of  a  dusky  hue,  but  the  summit  is  the 
seat  of  eternal  snows.  Near  Lachin  y  Gair  I  spent  some  of  the  early 
part  of  my  life,  the  recollection  of  which  has  given  birtli  to  these 
stanzas. 

t  This  word  is  erroneously  pronounced  plad:  the  proper  pronun- 
ciation (according  to  the  Scotch)  is  shown  by  the  orthography. 


__ ft^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  391 

"  Hl-starr'd,  though  brave,  did  no  visions  foreboding* 

Tell  you  that  fate  had  forsaken  your  cause?" 
Ah!  were  you  destined  to  die  at  Culloden^t 

Victory  crown'd  not  your  fall  with  applause: 
Still  were  you  happy  in  death's  earthy  slumber, 

You  rest  with  your  clan  in  the  caves  of  Braemar;^ 
The  pibroch  resounds,  to  the  piper's  loud  number, 

Your  deeds  on  the  echoes  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr. 
Years  have  rolPd  on,  Loch  na  Garr,  since  I  left  you, 

Years  must  elapse  ere  I  tread  you  again; 
Nature  of  verdure  and  flowers  has  bereft  you. 

Yet  still  are  you  dearer  than  Albion's  plain. 
England!  thy  beauties  are  tame  and  domestic 

To  one  who  has  roved  o'er  the  mountains  afar: 
Oh  for  the  crags  that  are  wild  and  majestic. 

The  steep  frowning  glories  of  dark  Loch  na  Garr! 


TO  ROMANCE. 

Parent  of  golden  dreams,  Romance! 

Auspicious  queen  of  childish  joys. 
Who  lead'st  along,  in  airy  dance. 

Thy  votive  train  of  girls  and  boys* 
At  length,  in  spells  no  longer  bound, 

I  break  the  fetters  of  my  youth; 
No  more  I  tread  thy  mystic  round. 

But  leave  thy  realms  for  those  of  Truth- 
And  yet  'tis  hard  to  quit  the  dreams 

Which  haunt  the  unsuspicious  soul, 
Where  every  nymph  a  goddess  seems, 

Whose  eyes  through  rays  immortal  roll; 
While  Fancy  holds  her  boundless  reign. 

And  all  assume  a  varied  hue; 
When  virgins  seem  no  longer  vain. 

And  even  woman's  smiles  are  true. 
And  must  we  own  thee  but  a  name. 

And  from  thy  hall  of  clouds  descend? 
Nor  find  a  sylph  in  eveiy  dame, 

A  Pylades  in  every  friend?§  ^ 

*  I  allude  here  to  my  maternal  ancestors,  "the  Gordons,''^  many  of 
whom  fought  for  the  unfortunate  Prince  Charles,  better  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Pretender.  This  branch  was  nearly  allied  by  blood, 
as  well  as  attachment,  to  the  Stuarts.  George,  the  second  Earl  of 
Huntly,  married  the  Princess  Annabella  Stuart,  daughter  of  James 
the  First  of  Scotland.  By  her  he  left  four  sons:  the  third.  Sir  Wil- 
liam Gordon,  I  have  the  honor  to  claim  as  one  of  my  progenitors. 

t  Whether  any  perished  in  the  battle  of  Culloden,  I  am  not  cer- 
tam;  but,  as  many  fell  in  the  insurrection,  I  have  used  the  name  of 
the  principal  action,  "pans  j^ro  toto.'''' 

X  A  tract  of  the  Highlands,  so  called.  Theje  is  also  a  Castle  of 
Braemar. 

§  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add,  that  Pylades  was  the  compan- 
ion of  Orestes,  and  a  partner  m  one  of  those  friendships  which, 
with  those  of  Achilles  and  Patroclus,  Nisus  and  Euryalus,  Damon 
and  Pythias,  have  been  handed  down  to  posterity  as  remarkable 
instances  of  attachments,  which  \n  all  probability  never  existed  be- 
yond the  imagination  of  the  poet,  or  the  page  of  an  historian,  or 
modem  novelist. 


* — 

892  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

But  leave  at  once  thy  realms  of  air 
To  mingling  bands  of  fairy  elves; 

Confess  tliat  woman  's  false  as  fair, 
And  friends  have  feeling  for— themselves! 

With  shame  I  own  I've  felt  thy  sway; 

Repentant,  now  thy  reign  is  o'er: 
No  more  thy  precepts  I  obey, 

No  more  on  fancied  pinions  soar. 
Fond  foolt  to  love  a  sparkling  eye, 

And  think  that  eye  to  truth  was  dear; 
To  trust  a  passing  wanton's  sigh. 

And  melt  beneath  a  wanton's  tear! 

Romance!  disgusted  with  deceit, 

Far  from  thy  motley  court  I  fly, 
Where  Affectation  holds  her  seat, 

And  sickly  Sensibility: 
Whose  silly  tears  can  never  flow 

For  any  pangs  excepting  thine; 
Who  turns  aside  from  real  woe. 

To  steep  in  dew  thy  gaudy  shrine. 

Now  join  with  sable  Sympathy, 

With  cj^ress  crown'd,  array'd  in  weeds, 
Who  heaves  withlhee  her  simple  sigh, 

Whose  breast  for  every  bosom  bleeds; 
And  call  thy  sylvan  female  choir, 

To  mourn  a  swain  for  ever  gone. 
Who  once  could  glow  with  equal  fire, 

But  bends  not  now  before  thy  throne. 

Ye  genial  nymphs,  whose  ready  tears 

On  all  occasions  swiftly  flow; 
Whose  bosoms  heave  with  fancied  fears. 

With  fancied  flames  and  frenzy  glow; 
Say,  will  you  mourn  my  absent  name. 

Apostate  from  your  gentle  train? 
An  infant  bard  at  least  may  claim 

From  you  a  sympathetic  strain. 

Adieu,  fond  race!  a  long  adieu! 

The  hour  of  fate  is  hovering  nigh; 
Even  now  the  gulf  appears  in  view, 

Where  unlameuted  you  must  lie: 
Oblivion's  blackening  lake  is  seen, 

Convulsed  by  gales  you  cannot  weather; 
Where  you,  and  eke  your  gentle  queen, 

Alas!  must  perish  altogether. 


^^m— *^ 

HOUKS  OF  IDLENESS.  393 

ANSWER  TO  SOME  ELEGANT  VERSES 

SENT  BY  A  FRIEND  TO  THE  AUTHOR,  COMPLAINING   THAT  ONE  OF 
HIS  DESCRIPTIONS  WAS  RATHER  TOO  WARMLY  DRAWN. 

"But  if  any  old  lady,  kright,  priest,  or  physician, 
Should  condemn  me  for  printing  a  second  edition; 
If  good  JIadaine  iSquintura  my  work  should  abuse. 
May  I  venture  to  give  her  a  smack  of  my  musel" 

Neio  Bath  Guide. 

Candor  compels  me,  Becher!  to  commend 
The  verse  which  blends  the  censoi  with  the  friend. 
Your  strong  yet  just  reproof  extorts  applause 
From  me,  the  heedless  and  imprudent  cause. 
For  this  wild  error,  which  pervades  my  strain, 
I  sue  for  pardon — must  I  sue  in  vain? 
The  wise  sometimes  from  Wisdom's  ways  depart: 
Can  youth  then  hush  the  dictates  of  the  heart? 
Precepts  of  prudence  curb,  but  can't  control, 
The  fierce  emotions  of  the  flowing  soul; 
When  Love's  delirium  haunts  the  glowing  mind, 
Limping  Decorum  lingers  far  behind: 
Vainly  the  dotard  mends  her  prudish  pace, 
Outstript  and  vanquish'd  in  the  mental  chase. 
The  young,  the  old,  have  worn  the  chains  of  love: 
Let  those  they  ne'er  confined  my  lay  reprove: 
Let  those  whose  souls  contemn  the  pleasing  power 
Their  censures  on  the  hapless  victim  shower. 

Oh!  how  I  hate  the  nerveless,  frigid  song, 
The  ceaseless  echo  of  the  rhyming  throng, 
Whose  labor'd  lines  in  chilling  numbers  flow, 
To  paint  a  pang  the  author  ne'er  can  know! 
The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth; — 
My  lyre,  the  heart;  my  muse,  the  simple  truth. 
Far  be't  from  me  the  "  virgin's  mind  "  to  "  taint:" 
Seduction's  dread  is  here  no  slight  restraint. 
The  maid  whose  virgin  breast  is  void  of  guile, 
Whose  wishes  dimple  in  a  modest  smile. 
Whose  downcast  eye  disdains  the  wanton  leer,     * 
Firm  in  her  virtue's  strength,  yet  not  severe — 
She  whom  a  conscious  grace  shall  thus  refine, 
Will  ne'er  be  "  tainted  ''  by  a  strain  of  mine. 
But  for  the  nymph  whose  premature  desires 
Torment  her  bosom  with  unholy  fires. 
No  net  to  snare  her  willing  heart  is  spread; 
She  would  have  fallen,  though  she  ne'er  had  read. 
For  me,  I  fain  would  please  the  chosen  few. 
Whose  souls,  to  feeling  and  to  nature  true. 
Will  spare  the  childish  verse,  and  not  destroy 
The  light  effusions  of  a  heedless  boy. 
1  seek  not  glory  from  the  senseless  crowd; 
Of  fancied  laurels  I  shall  ne'er  be  proud: 
Their  warmest  plaudits  I  would  scarcely  prize, 
Their  sneers  or  censures  I  alike  despise. 
Nweniher  26.  1806.  '   '  V 


t 


+ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 


ELEGY  ON  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY  * 

"It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone!  they  roll  before  me  with  all 
their  deeds."— Ossian. 

Newstead!  fast-falling,  once  resplendent  dome! 

Religion's  shrine!  repentant  Henry's  pride  If 
Of  warriors,  monks,  and  dames  the  cloister' d  tomb, 

Whose  pensive  shades  around  thy  ruins  glide, 

Hail  to  thy  pile!  more  honor' d  in  thy  fall. 
Than  modem  mansions  in  their  pillar'd  state; 

Proudly  majestic  frowns  thy  vaulted  hall. 
Scowling  defiance  on  the  blasts  of  fate. 

No  mail-clad  serfs,!  obedient  to  their  lord. 
In  grim  array  the  crimson  cross  demand;§ 

Or  gay  assemble  round  the  festive  board 
Their  chief's  retainers,  an  immortal  band: 

Else  might  inspiring  Fancy's  magic  eye 

Retrace  their  progress  through  the  lapse  of  time, 

Marking  each  ardent  youth,  ordain 'd  to  die, 
A  votive  pilgrim  in  Judea's  clime. 

But  not  from  thee,  dark  pile!  departs  the  chief; 

His  feudal  realm  in  other  regions  lay: 
In  thee  the  wounded  conscience  courts  relief, 

Retiring  from  the  garish  blaze  of  day. 

Yes!  in  thy  gloomy  cells  and  shades  profound, 
The  monk  abjured  a  world  he  ne'er  could  view; 

Or  blood-stain'd  guilt  repenting  solace  found. 
Or  innocence  from  stem  oppression  flew. 

A  monarch  bade  thee  from  that  wild  arise. 

Where  Sherwood's  outlaws  once  were  wont  to  prowl; 
And  Superstition's  crimes,  of  various  dyes, 

Sought  shelter  in  the  priest's  protecting  cowl. 

Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 
The  humid  pall  of  life-extinguish 'd  clay, 

In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 
Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray; 

Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 
Soon  as  the  gloamingi  spreads  her  waning  shade, 

The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend. 
Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  paid.  1 

*  As  one  poem  on  this  subject  is  already  printed,  the  author  had, 
originally,  no  intention  of  inserting  this  piece.  It  is  now  added  at 
the  particular  request  of  some  friends. 

t  Ilenrv  11.  founded  Newstead  soon  after  the  murder  of  Thomas 
a'  Becket. 

JThis  word  is  used  by  Walter  Scott,  in  his  poem,  "The  Wild 
Huntsman,"  synonymous  with  vassal. 

§  The  red  cross  was  the  badge  of  the  crusaders. 

I  As  "gloaming."  the  Scottish  word  for  twilight,  is  far  more  poet- 
ical, and  has  been  recommended  by  many  eminent  literary  men, 
l>articularly  by  Dr.  Moore  in  his  Letters  to  Burns,  I  have  ventured  to 
use  it  on  account  of  its  liarmony. 

\  The  priory  was  dedicated  to  the  Virgin. 


4H- 


^ ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  39& 

Years  roll  on  years;  to  ages,  ages  yield; 

Abbots  to  abbots,  in  a  line,  succeed; 
Eeligion's  charter  their  protecting  shield, 

Till  royal  sacrilege  their  doom  decreed. 

One  holy  Henry  rear'd  the  Gothic  walls, 

And  bade  the  pious  inmates  rest  in  peace; 
Another  Henry  the  kind  gift  recalls,* 

And  bids  devotion's  haliow'd  echoes  cease. 

Vain  is  each  threat  or  supplicating  prayer; 

He  drives  them  exiles  from  their  blest  abode, 
To  roam  a  dreary  world  in  deep  despair — 

No  friend,  no  home,  no  refuge  but  their  God. 

Hark  how  the  hall,  resounding  to  the  strain. 

Shakos  with  the  martial  music's  novel  dinl 
The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 

High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 
The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  bumish'd  arms, 

The  braying  trumpet  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms. 

An  abbey  once,  a  regal  fortress  now, 

Encircled  by  insulting  rebel  powers, 
War's  dread  machines  o'erhang  thy  threatening  brow, 

And  dart  destruction  in  sulphureous  showers. 

Ah,  vain  defence!  the  hostile  traitor's  siege, 
Though  oft  repulsed,  by  guile  o'ercomes  the  brave; 

His  thronging  foes  oppress  the  faithful  liege. 
Rebellion's  reeking  standards  o'er  him  wave. 

Not  unavenged  the  raging  baron  yields; 

The  blood  of  traitors  smears  the  purple  plain; 
Unconquer'd  still,  his  falchion  there  he  wields. 

And  days  of  glory  yet  for  him  remain. 

Still  in  that  hour  the  warrior  wish'd  to  strew 
Self-gather' d  laurels  on  a  self-bought  grave: 

But  Charles'  protecting  genius  hither  fle.v, 
The  monarch's  friend,  the  monarch's  hope,  to  save. 

Trembling,  she  snatch 'd  him  from  the  unequal  strife, t 

In  other  fields  the  torrent  to  repel; 
For  nobler  combats,  here,  reserved  his  life. 

To  lead  the  band  where  godlike  Falkland  fell.  J 

*At  the  dissolution!of  the  monasteries,  Henry  VIII.  bestowed  New- 
stead  Abbey  on  Sir  John  Byron. 

t  Lord  Byron,  and  his  brother  Sir  William,  held  high  commands 
in  the  royal  army.  The  former  was  general  in  chief  in  Ireland, 
lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  governor  to  James,  Duke  of  York,  af- 
terwards the  unhappy  James  11. ;  the  latter  had  a  principal  share  in 
many  actions. 

t  Lucius  Gary,  Lord  Viscount  Falkland,  the  most  accomplished 
man  of  his  age,  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Newbury,  charging  in  the 
ranks  of  Lord  Byron's  regiment  of  cavalry. 


♦It 


it* 


+ 


396  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

From  thee,  poor  pile!  to  lawless  plunder  given, 
While  dyin^  groans  their  painful  requiem  sound, 

Far  different  mcense  now  ascends  to  heaven, 
Such  victims  wallow  on  the  gory  ground. 

There  many  a  pale  and  ruthless  robber's  corse, 
Noisome  and  ghast,  defiles  thy  sacred  sod; 

O'er  mingling  man,  and  horse  commix'd  with  horse. 
Corruption's  heap,  the  savage  spoiler's  trod. 

Graves,  long  with  rank  and  sighing  weeds  o'erspread, 
Ransack'd,  resign  perforce  their  mortal  mould; 

From  ruffian  fangs  escape  not  e'en  the  dead. 
Raked  from  repose  in  search  for  buried  gold. 

Hush'd  is  the  harp,  unstrung  the  warlike  lyre, 
f      The  minstrel's  palsied  hand  reclines  in  death: 
No  more  he  strikes  the  quivering  chords  with  fire, 
Or  sings  the  glories  oi  the  martial  wreath. 

At  length  the  sated  murderers,  gorged  with  prey. 

Retire;  the  clamor  of  the  fight  is  o'er; 
Silence  again  resumes  her  awful  sway, 

And  sable  Hoiror  guards  the  massy  door. 

Here  Desolation  holds  her  dreary  court: 

What  satellites  declare  her  dismal  reign? 
Shrieking  their  dirge,  ill-omen'd  birds  resort. 

To  flit  their  vigils  in  the  hoary  fane. 

Soon  a  new  mom's  restoring  beams  dispel 
The  clouds  of  anarchy  from  Britain's  skies; 

The  fierce  usurper  seeks  his  native  hell. 
And  Nature  triumphs  as  the  tyrant  dies. 

With  storms  she  welcomes  his  expiring  groans; 

Whirlwinds,  responsive,  greet  his  laboring  breath; 
Earth  shudders  as  her  caves  receive  his  bones. 

Loathing  the  offering  of  so  dark  a  death.* 

The  legal  ruler  now  resumes  the  helm,t 
He  guides  through  gentle  seas  the  prow  of  state; 

Hope  cheers,  with  wonted  smiles,  the  peaceful  realm. 
And  heals  the  bleeding  wounds  of  wearied  hate. 

The  gloomy  tenants,  Newstead!  of  thy  cells, 

Howling,  resign  their  violated  nest; 
Again  the  master  on  his  tenure  dwells, 

Enjoy'd,  from  absence,  with  enraptured  zest. 

Vassals,  within  thy  hospitable  pale. 
Loudly  carousing,  bless  their  lord's  return; 

Culture  again  adorns  the  gladdening  vale, 
And  matrons,  once  lamenting,  cease  to  mourn. 

♦This  is  an  historical  fact.  A  violent  tempest  occurred  immedi- 
ately subsequent  to  the  death  or  interment  of  Cronnvell,  which 
occasioned  many  disputes  between  his  partisans  an*l  the  Cavaliers: 
both  interpreted  the  circumstance  into  divine  interposition;  but 
wliether  as  approbation  or  condemnation,  wo  leave  for  the  casuists 
of  that  age  to  decide.  I  have  made  such  use  of  the  occurrence  as 
suited  the  subject  of  my  poem.  t  Charles  H. 


ih- 


^H^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

A  thousand  songs  on  tuneful  echo  float, 
Unwonted  foliage  mantles  o'or  the  trees: 

And  hark!  the  horns  proclaim  a  mellow  note, 
The  hunter's  cry  hangs  lengthening  on  the  breeze. 

Beneath  their  coursers'  hoofs  the  valleys  shake: 
What  fears,  what  anxious  hopes,  attend  the  chasel 

The  dying  stag  seeks  refuge  in  the  Lake; 
Exulting  shouts  announce  the  finish 'd  race. 

Ah,  happy  days!  too  happy  to  endure! 

Such  simple  sports  our  plain  forefathers  knew: 
No  splendid  vices  glitter' d  to  allure: 

Their  joys  were  many,  as  their  cares  were  few. 

From  these  descending,  sons  to  sires  succeed; 

Time  steals  along,  and  Death  uprears  his  dart; 
Another  chief  impels  the  foaming  steed. 

Another  crowd  pursue  the  panting  hart. 

Newstead!  what  saddening  change  of  scene  is  thine! 

Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  slow  decay! 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line 

Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  in  his  sway. 

Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray  worn  towers; 

Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep; 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers; 

These,  these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

Yet  are  his  tears  no  emblem  of  regret: 
Cherish'd  affection  only  bids  them  flow. 

Pride,  hope,  and  love  forbid  him  to  forget. 
But  warm  his  bosom  with  impassion'd  glow. 

Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes 
Or  gewgaw  grottos  of  the  vainly  great; 

Yet  lingers  mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs. 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  'gainst  the  will  of  fate. 

Haply  thy  sun,  emerging,  yet  may  shine, 

Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 

And  bless  thy  future  as  thy  former  day. 


CHILDISH  RECOLLECTIONS. 

"I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  dear  to  me." 

When  slow  Disease,  with  all  her  host  of  pains, 
Chills  the  warm  tide  which  flows  along  the  veins; 
When  Health,  affrighted,  spreads  her  rosy  wing, 
And  flies  with  every  changing  gale  of  spring; 
Not  to  the  aching  frame  alone  confined. 
Unyielding  pang:?  assail  the  drooping  mind: 
What  grisly  forms,  the  spectre-train  of  woe. 
Bid  shuddering  Nature  shrink  beneath  the  blow, 

A A^ 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

With  Resi^ation  wage  relentless  strife, 

While  Hope  retires  appall'd,  and  clings  to  life. 

Yet  less  the  pang  when,  through  the  tedious  hour, 

Remembrance  sheds  around  her  genial  power, 

Calls  back  the  vanish'd  days  to  rapture  given, 

When  love  was  bliss,  and  beauty  form'd  our  heaven; 

Or,  dear  to  youth,  portrays  each  childish  scene. 

Those  fairy  bowers,  where  all  in  turn  have  been. 

As  when  through  clouds  that  pour  the  summer  storm 

The  orb  of  day  unveils  his  distant  form. 

Gilds  with  faint  beams  the  crystal  dews  of  rain, 

And  dimly  twinkles  o'er  the  watery  plain; 

Thus,  while  the  future  dark  and  cheerless  gleams. 

The  sun  of  memory,  glowing  through  my  dreams, 

Though  sunk  the  radiance  of  his  former  blaze, 

To  scenes  far  distant  points  his  paler  rays: 

Still  rules  my  senses  with  unbounded  sway, 

The  past  confounding  with  the  present  day. 

Oft  does  my  heart  indulge  the  rising  thought, 
Which  still  recurs,  unlook'd  for  and  unsought: 
My  soul  to  Fancy's  fond  suggestion  yields. 
And  roams  romantic  o'er  her  airy  fields: 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  developed,  crowd  to  view, 
To  which  I  long  have  bade  a  last  adieu! 
Seats  of  delight,  inspiring  youthful  themes; 
Friends  lost  to  me  for  aye,  except  in  dreams; 
Some  who  in  marble  prematurely  sleep. 
Whose  forms  I  now  remember  but  to  weep; 
Some  who  yet  urge  the  same  scholastic  course 
Of  early  science,  future  fame  the  source; 
Who,  still  contending  in  the  studious  race, 
In  quick  rotation  fill  the  senior  place. 
These  with  a  thousand  visions  now  unite. 
To  dazzle,  though  they  please,  my  aching  sight. 
Ida!  blest  spot,  where  Science  holds  her  reign, 
How  joyous  once  I  join'd  thy  youthful  train! 
Bright  in  idea  gleams  thy  lofty  spire, 
Again  I  mingle  with  thy  playful  choir; 
Our  tricks  or  mischief,  every  childish  game, 
Unchanged  by  time  or  distance,  seem  the  same; 
Through  winding  paths  along  the  glade,  I  trace 
The  social  smile  of  every  welcome  face; 
My  wonted  haunts,  ray  scenes  of  joy  and  woe. 
Each  early  boyish  friend,  or  youthful  foe, 
Our  feuds  dissolved,  but  not  my  friendship  past: — 
I  bless  tlie  former,  and  forgive  the  last. 
Hours  of  my  youth!  when,  nurtured  in  my  breast, 
To  love  a  stranger,  friendship  made  me  blest; — 
Friendship,  the  dear  peculiar  bond  of  youth, 
When  every  artless  bosom  throbs  with  truth; 
Untaught  by  worldly  wisdom  how  to  feign. 
And  (iheck  each  impulse  with  prudential  rein; 
When  all  we  feel,  our  honest  souls  disclose — 
In  love  to  friends,  in  open  hate  to.  foes; 
No  varnish'd  tales  the  lips  of  youth  repeat. 
No  dear-bought  knowledge  purchased  by  deceit. 


* *■ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  39^ 

Hypocrisy,  the  gift  of  lengthen'd  years, 

Matured  by  age,  the  garb  of  prudence  wears. 

When  now  the  boy  is  ripen 'd  into  man, 

His  careful  sire  chalks  forth  son)e  wary  plan; 

Instructs  his  son  from  candor's  path  to  shrink, 

Smoothly  to  speak,  and  cautiously  to  think; 

Still  to  assent,  and  never  to  deny — 

A  patron's  praise  can  well  reward  the  lie: 

And  who,  when  Fortune's  warning  voice  is  heard, 

Would  lose  his  opening  prospects  for  a  word? 

Although  against  that  word  his  heart  rebel, 

And  truth  indignant  all  his  bosom  swell. 

Away  with  themes  like  this!  not  mine  the  task 
From  flattering  fiends  to  tear  the  hateful  mask; 
Let  keener  bards  delight  in  satire's  sting; 
My  fancy  soars  not  on  Detraction's  wing: 
Once,  and  but  once,  she  aim'd  a  deadly  blow, 
To  hurl  defiance  on  a  secret  foe; 
But  when  that  foe,  from  feeling  or  from  shame, 
The  cause  unknown,  yet  still  to  me  the  same, 
Wam'd  by  some  friendly  hint,  perchance,  retired, 
With  this  submission  all  her  rage  expired. 
From  dreaded  pangs  that  feeble  foe  to  save. 
She  hush'd  her  young  resentment,  and  forgave; 
Or,  if  my  muse  a  pedant's  portrait  drew, 
Pomposus'  virtues  are  but  known  to  few: 
I  never  fear'd  the  young  usui-per's  nod. 
And  he  who  wields  must  sometimes  feel  the  rod. 
If  since  on  Granta's  failings,  known  to  all 
Who  share  the  converse  of  a  college  hall. 
She  sometimes  trifled  in  a  lighter  strain, 
'Tis  past,  and  thus  she  will  not  sin  again. 
Soon  must  her  early  song  for  ever  cease. 
And  all  may  rail  when  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

Here  first  remember'd  be  the  joyous  band. 
Who  hail'd  me  chief,  obedient  to  command: 
Who  join'd  with  me  in  every  boyish  sport — 
Their  first  adviser,  and  their  last  resort; 
Nor  shrunk  beneath  the  upstart  pedant's  frown. 
Or  all  the  sable  glories  of  his  gown; 
Who,  thus  transplanted  from  nis  father's  school — 
Unfit  to  govern,  ignorant  of  rule — 
Succeeded  him,  whom  all  unite  to  praise, 
The  dear  preceptor  of  my  early  days: 
Probus,  the  pride  of  science,  and  the  boast,* 
To  Ida  now,  alas!  for  ever  lost. 

*  Dr.  Drury.  This  most  able  and  excellent  man  retired  from  his 
situation  in  March,  1805,  after  having  resided  thirty-five  years  at 
Harrow;  the  last  twenty  as  head-master;  an  office  he  held  with 
equal  honor  to  himself  and  advantage  to  the  very  extensive  school 
over  which  he  presided.  Panegyric  would  here  be  superfluous:  it 
would  be  useless  to  enumerate  qualifications  which  were  never 
doubted.  A  considerable  contest  took  place  between  three  rival 
candidates  for  his  vacant  chair:  of  this  I  can  only  say. 

Si  mea  cum  vestris  valuissent  vota  Pelasgi ! 

Non  foret  ambiguus  tanti  certaminis  hasres. 

♦* ^ 


400  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

With  him,  for  years,  we  search'd  the  classic  page, 
And  fear'd  the  master,  though  we  loved  the  sage: 
Retired  at  last,  his  small  yet  peaceful  seat, 
From  learning's  labor  is  the  blest  retreat, 
Pomposus  fills  his  magisterial  chair; 
Pomposus  governs— but,  my  muse,  forbear: 
C'Ontempt,  in  silence,  be  the  pedant's  lot; 
His  name  and  precepts  be  alike  tcrgot! 
No  more  his  mention  shall  my  verse  degrade — 
To  him  my  tribute  is  already  paid. 

High,  through  those  elms,  with  hoary  branches  crown'd, 
Fair  Ida's  bower  adorns  the  landscape  round; 
There  Science,  from  her  favor'd  seat,  surveys 
The  vale  where  rural  Nature  claims  her  praise; 
To  her  awhile  resigns  her  youthful  train. 
Who  move  in  joy,  and  dance  along  the  plain; 
In  scatter'd  groups,  each  favor'd  haunt  pursue; 
Repeat  old  pastimes,  and  discover  new; 
Flush'd  with  his  rays,  beneath  the  noontide  sun, 
In  rival  bands,  between  the  wickets  run. 
Drive  o'er  the  sward  the  ball  with  active  force, 
Or  chase  with  nimble  feet  its  rapid  course. 
But  these  with  slower  steps  direct  their  way, 
Where  Brent's  cool  waves  in  limpid  currents  stray; 
While  yonder  few  search  out  some  green  retreat, 
And  arbors  shade  them  from  the  summer  heat: 
Others  again,  a  pert  and  lively  crew. 
Some  rough  and  thoughtless  stranger  placed  in  view, 
With  frolic  quaint  their  antic  jests  expose, 
And  tease  the  grumbling  rustic  as  he  goes: 
Nor  rest  with  this,  but  many  a  passing  fray        ^ 
Tradition  treasures  for  a  future  day: 
"  'Twas  here  the  gather'd  swains  for  vengeance  fought, 
And  here  we  earn  d  the  conquest  dearly  bought; 
Here  have  we  fled  before  superior  might. 
And  here  renew'd  the  wild  tumultuous  fight." 
While  thus  our  souls  with  early  passions  swell, 
In  lingering  tones  resounds  the  distant  bell; 
Th'  allotted  hour  of  daily  sport  is  o'er. 
And  Learning  beckons  from  her  temple's  door. 
No  splendid  tablets  grace  her  simple  hall. 
But  ruder  records  fill  the  dusky  wall; 
There,  deeply  carved,  behold!  each  tyro's  name 
Secures  its  owner's  academic  fame; 
Here  mingling  view  the  names  of  sire  and  son. 
The  one  long  graved,  the  other  just  begun: 
These  shall  survive  alike  when  son  and  sire 
Beneath  one  common  stroke  of  fate  expire: 
Perhaps  their  last  memorial  these  alone, 
Denied  in  death  a  monumental  stone, 
Whilst  to  the  gale  in  mournful  cadence  wave 
The  sighing  weeds  that  hide  their  nameless  grave. 
And  here  my  name,  and  many  an  early  friend's, 
Along  the  wall  in  lengthcn'd'liue  extends. 
Though  still  our  deeds  amuse  the  youthful  race, 
Who  tread  our  steps,  and  fill  our  former  place, 


^K 


i- 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  401 

Who  young  obey'd  their  lords  in  silent  awe, 
Whose  nod  commanded,  and  whose  voice  was  law; 
And  now,  in  turn,  possess  the  reins  of  power, 
To  rule  the  little  tyrants  of  an  hour;— 
Though  sometimes,  with  the  tales  of  ancient  day, 
They  pass  the  dreary  winter's  eve  away— 
"And  thus  our  former  rulers  stemm'd  the  tide, 
And  thus  they  dealt  the  combat  side  by  side; 
Just  in  this  place  the  mouldering  walls  they  scaled, 
Nor  bolts  nor  bars  against  their  strength  avail'd; 
Here  Probus  came,  the  rising  fray  to  quell, 
And  here  he  falter'd  forth  his  last  farewell; 
And  here  one  night  abroad  they  dared  to  roam, 
While  bold  Pomposus  bravely  stay'd  at  home;" — 
While  thus  they  speak,  the  hour  must  soon  arrive, 
When  names  of  these,  like  ours,  alone  survive: 
Yet  a  few  years,  one  general  wreck  will  whelm 
The  faint  remembrance  of  our  fairy  realm. 

Dear  honest  race!  though  now  we  meet  no  more, 
One  last  long  look  on  what  we  were  before — 
Our  first  kind  greetings,  and  our  last  adieu — 
Drew  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep  with  you. 
Through  splendid  circles,  fashion's  gaudy  world, 
Where  folly's  glaring  standard  waves  unfurl' d, 
I  plunged  to  drown  in  noise  my  fond  regret, 
And  all  I  sought  or  hoped  was  to  forget. 
Vain  wish!  if  chance  some  well-remember'd  face. 
Some  old  companion  of  my  early  race. 
Advanced  to  claim  his  friend  with  honest  joy, 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  proclaim'd  me  still  a  boy; 
The  glittering  scene,  the  flattering  groups  around. 
Were  quite  forgotten  when  my  friend  was  found; 
The  smiles  of  beauty — (for,  alas!  I've  known 
What  'tis  to  bend  before  Love's  mighty  throne) — 
The  smiles  of  beauty,  though  those  smiles  were  dear, 
Could  hardly  charm  me,  when  that  friend  was  near: 
My  thoughts  bewilder' d  in  the  fond  surprise. 
The  wood  of  Ida  danced  before  my  eyes; 
I  saw  the  sprightly  wanderers  pour  along, 
I  saw  and  join'd  again  the  joyous  throng; 
Pantiii;^,  again  I  traced  her  lofty  grove. 
And  friendship's  feelings  triumph'd  over  love. 

Yet,  why  should  I  alone  with  such  delight. 
Retrace  the  circuit  of  my  former  flighty 
Is  there  no  cause  beyond  the  common  claim 
Endear'd  to  all  in  childhood's  very  name? 
Ah!  sure  some  stronger  impulse  vibrates  here. 
Which  whispers  friendship  will  be  doubly  dear, 
To  one  who  thus  for  kindred  hearts  must  roam. 
And  seek  abroad  the  love  denied  at  home. 
Those  hearts,  dear  Ida,  have  I  found  in  thee — 
A  home,  a  world,  a  paradise  to  me. 
Stem  Death  forbade  my  orphan  youth  to  share 
The  tender  guidance  of  a  father's  cai*e. 


-Ht 


-* *♦ 

402  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Can  rank,  or  e'en  a  guardian's  name,  supply 

The  love  which  glistens  in  a  father's  eye? 

For  this  can  wealth  or  title's  sound  atone, 

Made,  by  a  parent's  early  loss,  my  own? 

What  brother  springs  a  brother's  love  to  seek? 

What  sister's  gentle  kiss  has  prest  my  cheek? 

For  me  how  dull  the  vacant  moments  rise, 

To  no  fond  bosom  link'd  by  kindred  ties! 

Oft  in  the  progress  of  some  fleeting  dream 

Fraternal  smiles  collected  round  me  seem; 

While  still  the  visions  to  my  heart  are  prest, 

The  voice  of  love  will  murmur  in  my  rest: 

I  hear — I  wake — and  in  the  sound  rejoice; 

I  hear  again — but  ah!  no  brother's  voice. 

A  hermit,  'midst  of  crowds,  I  fain  must  stray 

Alone,  though  thousand  pilgrims  fill  the  way; 

While  these  a  thousand  kindred  wreaths  entwine, 

I  cannot  call  one  single  blossom  mine: 

What  then  remains?  in  solitude  to  groan, 

To  mix  in  friendship,  or  to  sigh  alone. 

Thus  must  I  cling  to  some  endearing  hand. 

And  none  more  dear  than  Ida's  social  band. 

Alonzo!  best  and  dearest  of  my  friends, 
Thy  name  enobles  him  who  thus  commends: 
From  this  fond  tribute  thou  canst  gain  no  praise; 
The  praise  is  his  who  now  that  tribute  pays. 
Oh!  in  the  promise  of  thy  early  youth. 
If  hope  anticipate  the  words  of  truth. 
Some  loftier  bard  shall  sing  thy  glorious  name, 
To  build  his  own  upon  thy  deathless  fame. 
Friend  of  my  heart,  and  foremost  of  the  list    . 
Of  those  with  whom  I  lived  supremely  blest. 
Oft  have  we  drain'd  the  font  of  ancient  lore; 
Though  drinking  deeply,  thirsting  still  the  more. 
Yet,  when  confinement's  lingering  hour  was  done, 
Our  sports,  our  studies,  and  our  souls  were  one: 
Together  we  impell'd  the  flying  ball; 
Together  waited  in  our  tutor's  hall: 
Together  join'd  in  cricket's  manly  toil, 
Or  shared  the  produce  of  the  river's  spoil; 
Or,  plunginj?  from  the  green  declining  shore, 
Our  pliant  limbs  the  buojant  billows  bore; 
In  every  element,  unchanged,  the  same. 
All,  all  that  brothers  should  be,  but  the  name. 

Nor  yet  are  you  forgot,  my  jocund  boy; 
Davus,  the  harbinger  of  childish  joy; 
Forever  foremost  in  tlu'  ranks  of  fun. 
The  laughing  herald  of  the  harmless  pun; 
Yet  with  a  breast  of  such  materials  made — 
Anxious  to  please,  of  i>leasing  half  afraid; 
Candid  and  liberal,  with  a  heart  of  steel 
In  danger's  path,  though  not  untaught  to  feel. 
Still  I  remember,  in  the  factious  strife. 
The  rustic's  musket  aim'd  against  my  life: 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  403 

High  poised  in  air  the  massy  weapon  hung, 
A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  every  tongue; 
.  Whilst  I,  in  combat  with  another  foe, 
Fought  on,  unconscious  of  th'  impending  blow; 
Your  arm,  brave  boy,  aiTested  his  career — 
Forward  you  sprung,  insensible  to  fear; 
Disarm'd  and  bathed  by  your  conquering  hand, 
The  grovelling  savage  roll'd  upon  the  sand: 
An  act  like  this,  can  simple  thanks  repay, 
Or  all  the  labors  of  a  grateful  lay? 
Oh,  no!  whene'er  my  breast  forgets  the  deed, 
That  instant,  Davus,  it  deserves  to  bleed. 

Lycus!  on  me  thy  claims  are  justly  great: 
Thy  milder  virtues  could  my  muse  relate. 
To  thee  alone,  unrivall'd,  would  belong 
The  feeble  efforts  of  my  lengthen'd  song. 
Well  canst  thou  boast,  to  lead  in  senates  fit, 
A  Spartan  firmness  with  Athenian  wit: 
Though  yet  in  embryo  these  perfections  shine, 
Lycus  I  thy  father's  fame  w'ill  soon  be  thine. 
Where  learning  nurtures  the  superior  mind. 
What  may  we  hope  from  genius  thus  refined! 
When  time  at  length  matures  thy  growing  5^ear8, 
How  wilt  thou  tower  above  thy  fellow-peers! 
Prudence  and  sense,  a  spirit  bold  and  free, 
With  honor's  soul,  united  beam  in  thee.   • 

Shall  fair  Euryalus  pass  by  unsung? 
From  ancient  lineage,  not  unworthy  sprung: 
What  though  one  sad  dissension  bade  us  part, 
That  name  is  yet  embalm'd  within  my  heart; 
Yet  at  the.  mention  does  that  heart  rebound, 
And  palpitate,  responsive  to  the  sound. 
Envy  dissolved  our  ties,  and  not  our  will: 
We  once  were  friends — I'tt  think  we  are  so  still. 
A  form  unmatch'd  in  nature's  partial  mould, 
A  heart  untainted,  we  in  thee  behold: 
Yet  not  the  senate's  thunder  thou  shalt  wield. 
Nor  seek  for  glory  in  the  tented  field; 
To  minds  of  ruder  texture  these  be  given — 
Thy  soul  shall  nearer  soar  its  native  heaven. 
Haply,  in  polish'd  courts  might  be  thy  seat. 
But  that  thy  tongue  could  never  forge  deceit: 
The  courtier's  supple  bow  and  sneering  smile. 
The  flow  of  compliment,  the  slippery  wile. 
Would  make  that  breast  with  indignation  burn. 
And  all  the  glittering  snares  to  tempt  thee  spurn. 
Domestic  happiness  will  stamp  thy  fate; 
Sacred  to  love,  unclouded  e'er  by  hate; 
The  world  admire  thee,  and  thy  friends  adore; — 
Ambition's  slave  alone  would  toil  for  more. 

Now  last,  but  nearest,  of  the  social  band. 
See  honest,  open,  generous  Cleon  stand; 
With  scarce  one  speck  to  cloud  the  pleasing  scene, 
No  vice  degrades  that  purest  soul  serene. 


iH- 


^h 


4K 


404  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

On  the  same  day  our  Btudious  race  begun, 
On  the  same  day  our  studious  race  was  run; 
Thus  side  by  side  we  pass'd  our  first  career, 
Thus  side  by  side  we  strove  for  many  a  year; 
At  last  concluded  our  scholastic  life, 
We  neither  conquer'd  in  the  classic  strife: 
As  speakers  each  sujjports  an  equal  name,* 
And  crowds  allow  to  both  a  partial  fame: 
To  soothe  a  youthful  rival's  early  pride, 
Though  Cleon's  candor  would  the  palm  divide, 
Yet  candor's  self  compels  me  now  to  own. 
Justice  awards  it  to  my  friend  alone. 

Oh!  friends  regretted,  scenes  for  ever  dear. 
Remembrance  hails  you  with  her  warmest  tear! 
Drooping,  she  bends  o'er  pensive  Fancy's  urn, 
To  trace  the  hours  which  never  can  return; 
Yet  with  the  retrospection  loves  to  dwell, 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  her  last  farewell! 
Yet  greets  the  triumph  of  my  boyish  mind. 
As  infant  laurels  round  my  head  were  twined, 
When  Probus'  praise  repaid  my  IjtIc  song. 
Or  placed  me  higher  in  the  studious  throng; 
Or  when  my  first  harangue  received  applause, 
His  sage  instruction  the  primeval  cause. 
What  gratitude  to  him  my  soul  possest. 
While  hope  of  dawning  honors  fill'd  my  breast! 
For  all  my  humble  fame,  to  him  alone 
The  praise  is  due,  who  made  that  fame  my  own. 
Oh!  could  I  soar  above  these  feeble  lays. 
These  young  effusions  of  my  early  days, 
To  him  my  muse  her  noblest  strain  would  give: 
The  song  mi^ht  perish,  but  the  theme  might  live. 
Yet  why  for  him  the  needless  verse  essay? 
His  honor'd  name  requires  no  vain  display: 
By  every  son  of  grateful  Ida^  blest. 
It  finds  an  echo  in  each  youthful  breast; 
A  fame  beyond  the  glories  of  the  proud, 
Or  all  the  plaudits  of  the  venal  crowd. 

Ida!  not  yet  exhausted  is  the  theme. 
Nor  closed  the  progress  of  my  youthful  dream. 
How  many  a  friend  deserves  the  grateful  strain! 
What  scenes  of  childhood  still  unsung  remain! 
Yet  let  me  hush  this  echo  of  the  past, 
This  partinjj  song,  the  dearest  and  the  last; 
And  brood  in  secret  o'er  those  hours  of  joy, 
To  me  a  silent  and  a  sweet  employ. 
While,  future  hope  and  fear  alike  unknown, 
I  think  with  pleasure  on  the  past  alone; 
Yes,  to  the  past  alone  my  heart  confine. 
And  chase  the  phantom  of  what  once  was  mine. 

Ida!  still  o'er  thy  hills  in  joy  preside, 
And  proudly  steer  through  timers  eventful  tide; 

*Thls  alludes  to  tlie  public  speeches  delivered  at  the  school  where 
the  author  was  educated. 


Ht 


^H■ 


-4 


_ ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  405 

Still  may  thy  blooming  sons  thy  name  revere, 

Smile  in  thy  bower,  but  quit  thee  with  a  tear; — 

That  tear,  perhaps,  the  fondest  which  will  flow, 

O'er  their  last  scene  of  happiness  below. 

Tell  me,  ye  hoary  few,  who  glide  along. 

The  feeble  veterans  of  some  former  throng. 

Whose  friends,  like  autumn  leaves  by  tempests  whirl'd, 

Are  swept  for  ever  from  this  busy  world; 

Revolve  the  fleeting  moments  of  your  youth. 

While  Care  as  yet  withheld  her  venom'd  tooth; 

Say  if  remembrance  days  like  this  endears 

Beyond  the  rapture  of  succeeding  years? 

Say,  can  ambition's  fever'd  dream  bestow 

So  sweet  a  balm  to  soothe  your  hours  of  woe? 

Can  treasures,  hoarded  for  some  thankless  son, 

Can  royal  smiles,  or  wreaths  by  slaughter  won, 

Can  stars  or  ermine,  man's  maturertoys, 

(For  glittering  baubles  are  not  left  to  boys,) 

Recall  one  scene  so  much  beloved  to  view. 

As  those  where  Youth  her  garland  twined  for  you? 

Ah,  no!  amidst  the  gloomy  calm  of  age 

You  turn  with  faltering  hand  life's  varied  page; 

Peruse  the  record  of  your  days  on  earth, 

Unsullied  only  where  it  marks  your  birth; 

Still  lingering  pause  above  each  chequer' d  leaf, 

And  blot  with  tears  the  sable  lines  of  grief; 

Where  Passion  o'er  the  theme  her  mantle  threw, 

Or  weeping  Virtue  sigh'd  a  faint  adieu; 

But  bless  the  scroll  which  fairer  words  adorn. 

Traced  by  the  ros^  flnger  of  the  mom; 

When  Friendship  bow'd  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 

And  Love,  without  his  pinion,  smiled  on  youth.* 


ANSWER  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  POEM, 

ENTITLED   "THE   COMMON  LOT."  f 

Montgomery!  true,  the  common  lot 

Of  mortals  lies  in  Lethe's  wave; 
Yet  some  shall  never  be  forgot — 

Some  shall  exist  beyond  the  grave. 

"Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth," 

The  hero  rolls  the  tide  of  war;  J 
Yet  not  unknown  his  martial  worth. 

Which  glares  a  meteor  from  afar. 

*  "L'Amiti6  est  1' Amour  sans  ailes,"  is  a  French  proverb. 

t  Written  by  James  Montgomery,  author  of  "  The  Wanderer  in 
Switzeriand,"  &c. 

X  No  particular  hero  is  here  alluded  to.  The  exploits  of  Bayard, 
Nemours,  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  and  in  more  modern  times  the 
fame  of  Marlborouprh,  Frederick  the  Great,  Count  Saxe,  Charles  of 
Sweden,  &c.,  are  familiar  to  every  historical  reader,  but  the  exact 
places  of  their  birth  are  known  to  a  very  small  proportion  of  their 
admirers. 


^ ^ 

406  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

His  joy  or  grief,  his  weal  or  woe, 

Perchance  may  'scape  the  page  of  fame; 
Yet  nations  now  unborn  will  know 

The  record  of  his  deathless  name. 

The  patriot's  and  the  poet's  frame 

Must  share  the  common  tomb  of  all: 
Their  glory  will  not  sleep  the  same; 

lluU  will  arise,  though  empires  fall. 

The  lustre  of  a  beauty's  eye 

Assumes  the  ghastly  stare  of  death; 
The  fair,  the  brave,  the  good  must  die, 

And  sink  the  yawning  grave  beneath. 

Once  more  the  speaking  eye  revives. 

Still  beaming  through  the  lover's  strain: 
For  Petrarch's  Laura  still  survives: 
•  She  died,  but  ne'er  will  die  again. 

The  rolling  seasons  pass  away, 

And  Time,  untiring,  waves  his  wing; 
Whilst  honor's  laurels  ne'er  decay, 

But  bloom  in  fresh,  unfading  spring. 

All,  all  must  sleep  in  grim  repose, 

Collected  in  the  sJent  tomb; 
The  old  and  young,  with  friends  and  foes, 

Festering  alike  iu  shrouds,  consume. 

The  mouldering  marble  lasts  its  day, 

Yet  falls  at  length  a  useless  fane; 
To  ruin's  ruthless  fangs  a  prey. 

The  wrecks  of  pillar' d  pride  remain. 

What,  though  the  sculpture  be  destroy'd, 

From  dark  oblivion  meant  to  guard; 
A  bright  renown  shall  be  enjoy'd 

By  those  whose  virtues  claim  reward. 

Then  do  not  say  the  common  lot 

Of  all  lies  deep  in  Lethe's  wave; 
Some  few  who  ne'er  will  be  forgot 
Shall  burst  the  bondage  of  the  grave. 
1806. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE    REV.   J.    T.  BECHER,   ON  HIS    ADVISING  THE 
AUTUOR  TO  MIX  MOKE  WITH  SOCIETY. 

Dear  Becher,  you  tell  me  to  mix  with  mankind: — 

I  cannot  deny  such  a  precept  is  wise; 
But  retirement  accords  with  the  tone  of  my  mind: 

I  will  not  descend  to  a  world  I  despise. 

Did  the  senate  or  camp  my  exertions  require, 
Ambition  might  prompt  me,  at  once,  to  go  forth, 

When  infancy's  years  of  probation  expire. 
Perchance  I  may  strive  to  distinguish  my  birth. 


HJ- 


^ ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  407 

The  fire  in  the  cavern  of  Etna  coneeal'd, 

Still  mantles  unseen  in  its  secret  recess; — 
At  length,  in  a  volume  terrific  reveal'd, 

No  torrent  can  quench  it,  no  bounds  can  repress. 

Oh!  thus,  the  desire  in  my  bosom  for  fame 
Bids  me  live  but  to  hope  for  posterity's  praise. 

Could  I  soar  with  the  phoenix  on  pinions  of  flame, 
With  him  I  would  wish  to  expire  in  the  blaze. 

For  the  life  of  a  Fox,  of  a  Chatham  the  death. 
What  censure,  what  danger,  what  woe  would  I  brave! 

They*  lives  did  not  end  when  they  yielded  their  breath  I 
Their  glory  illumines  the  gloom  of  their  grave. 

Yet  why  should  I  mingle  in  Fashion's  full  herd? 

Why  crouch  to  her  leaders,  or  cringe  to  her  rules? 
Why  bend  to  the  proud,  or  applaud  the  absurd? 

AVhy  search  for  delight  in  the  friendship  of  fools? 

I  have  tasted  the  sweets  and  the  bitters  of  love; 

In  friendship  I  early  was  taught  to  believe: 
My  passion  the  matrons  of  prudence  reprove; 

I  have  found  that  a  friend  may  profess,  yet  deceive. 

To  me  what  is  wealth? — It  may  pass  in  an  hour. 
If  tyrants  prevail,  or  if  Fortune  should  frown; 

To  me  what  is  title? — the  phantom  of  power; 
To  me  what  is  fashion? — I  seek  but  renown. 

Deceit  is  a  stranger  as  yet  to  my  soul; 

I  still  am  unpractised  to  varnish  the  truth: 
Then  why  should  I  live  in  a  hateful  control? 

Why  waste  upon  folly  the  days  of  my  youth? 


THE  DEATH  OF  CALMAR  AND  ORLA. 

AN  IMITATION  OF  MACPHEBSON'S  OSSIAN.* 

Dear  are  the  days  of  youth!  Age  dwells  on  their  remem- 
brance through  the  mist  of  time.  In  the  twilight  he  recalls  the 
sunny  hours  of  morn.  He  lifts  his  spear  with  trembling  hand. 
"Not  thus  feebly  did  I  raise  the  steel  before  my  fathers!" 
Past  is  the  race  of  heroes!  But  their  fame  rises  on  the  harp; 
their  souls  ride  on  the  wings  of  the  wind;  they  hear  the  sound 
through  the  sighs  of  •  the  storm,  and  rejoice  in  their  hall  of 
clouds!  Such  is  Calmar.  The  gray  stone  marks  his  narrow 
house.  He  looks  down  from  eddying  tempests:  he  rolls  his  form 
.in  the  whirlwind,  and  hovers  on  the  blast  of  the  mountain. 

In  Morven  dwelt  the  chief;  a  beam  of  war  to  Fingal.  His 
steps  in  the  field  were  marked  in  blood.  Lochlin's  sons  had  fled 
^before  his  angry  spear;  but  mild  was  the  eye  of  Calmar; 
soft  was  the  flow  of  his  yellow  locks,  they  streamed  like  the 
meteor  of  the  night.  No  maid  was  the  sigh  of  his  soul: 
his  thoughts  were  given  to  friendship,— to  dark-haired  Orla, 
destroyer  of    heroes!      Equal  were    their    swords    in    battle; 

♦  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe  that  the  story,  though  consider- 
ably varied  in  the  catastrophe,  is  taken  from  "  Nisusand  Euryalus  " 
of  which  episode  a  translation  is  already  given  in  the  present  volume. 


-Ht 


+ 


^ ^ 

408  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

but  fierce  was  the  pride  of  Oria:  —  gentle  alone  to  Calmar. 
Together  they  dwelt  in  the  cave  of  Oithoua. 

From  Lochliu,  Swaran  bounded  o'er  the  blue  waves.  Erin's 
sons  fell  beneath  his  might.  Fingfl  roused  his  chiefs  to  combat. 
Their  ships  cover  the  ocean.  Their  hosts  throng  on  the  green 
hills.     They  come  to  the  aid  of  Erin. 

Night  rose  in  clouds.  Darkness  veils  the  armies:  but  the 
blazing  oaks  gleam  through  the  valley.  The  sons  of  Lochlin 
slept:  their  dreams  were  of  blood.  They  lift  the  spear  in 
thought,  and  Fiugal  flies.  Not  so  the  host  of  Morven,  To 
watch  was  the  post  of  Orla.  Calmar  stood  by  his  side.  Their 
spears  were  in  their  hands.  Fingal  called  his  chiefs:^ they  stood 
around.  The  king  was  in  the  midst.  Gray  were  his  locks,  but 
strong  was  the  arm  of  the  king.  Age  withered  not  his  powers. 
"  Sons  of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  *'  to-morrow  we  meet  the  foe. 
But  where  is  Cuthullin,  the  shield  of  Erin?  He  rests  in  the 
halls  of  Tura;  he  knows  not  of  our  coming.  Who  will  speed  to 
Lochlin  to  the  hero,  and  call  the  chief  to  arms?  The  path  is  by 
the  swords  of  foes;  but  many  are  my  heroes.  They  are  thunder- 
bolts of  war.     Speak,  ye  chiefs!     Who  will  arise?'' 

"  Son  of  Trenmor!  mine  be  the  deed,"  said  dark-haired  Orla, 
"  and  mine  alone.  What  is  death  to  me?  I  love  the  sleep  of 
the  mighty,  but  little  is  the  danger.  The  sons  of  Lochlin  dream. 
I  will  seek  carborne  Cuthullin.  If  I  fall,  raise  the  song  of  bards; 
and  lay  me  by  the  stream  of  Lubar." — "And  shalt  thou  fall 
alone?"  said  fair-haired  Calmar.  "Wilt  thou  leave  thy  friend 
afar?  Chief  of  Oithona!  not  feeble  is  my  arm  in  fight.  Could 
I  see  thee  die,  and  not  lift  the  spear?  No,  Orla!  ours  has  been 
the  chase  of  the  roebuck,  and  the  feast  of  shells;  ours  be  the 
path  of  danj^er:  ours  has  been  the  cave  of  Oithona;  ours  be  the 
narrow  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  Lubar."  "Calmar,"  said  the 
chief  of  Oithona,  "  why  should  thy  yellow  locks  be  darkened 
in  the  dust  of  Erin?  Let  me  fall  alone.  My  father  dwells  in  his 
hall  of  air:  he  will  rejoice  in  his  boy;  but  the  blue-eyed  Mora 
spreads  the  feast  for  her  son  in  Mon^en.  She  listens  to  the  steps 
of  the  hunter  on  the  heath,  and  thinks  it  is  the  tread  of  Calmar. 
Let  him  not  say,  *  Calmar  has  fallen  by  the  steel  of  Lochlin:  he 
died  with  gloomy  Orla,  the  chief  of  the  dark  brow.'  Why 
should  tears  dim  the  azure  eye  of  Mora?  Why  should  her 
voice  curse  Orla,  the  destroyer  of  Calmar?  Live,  Calmar!  Live 
to  raise  my  stone  of  moss;  live  to  revenge  me  in  the  blood 
of  Lochlin.  Join  the  song  of  bards  above  my  grave.  Sweet 
will  be  the  song  of  death  to  Orla,  from  the  voice  of  Cal- 
mar. My  ghost  shall  smile  on  the  notes  of  praise."  "Orla," 
said  the  son  of  Mora,  "  could  I  raise  the  song^of  death  to  my 
friend?  Could  I  give  his  fame  to  the  winds?*  No,  my  heart 
would  speak  in  sighs:  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds  of  sor- 
row. Orla!  our  souls  shall  hear  the  the  song  together.  One 
cloud  shall  be  ours  on  high:  the  bards  will  mingle  the  names  of 
Orla  and  Calmar."  s 

They  quit  the  circle  of  the  chiefs.  Their  steps  are  to  the  host 
of  Lochlin.  The  dying  blaze  of  oak  dim  twinkles  through  the 
night.  The  northern  star  points  the  path  to  Tura.  Swaran, 
the  king,  rests  on  his  lonely  hill.  Here  the  troons  are  mixed: 
they  frown  in  sleep;  their  shields  beneath  their  heads.  Their 
swords  gleam  at  distance  in  heaps.  The  fires  are  faint;  their 
embers  fail  in  smoke.    All  is  hush'd;  but  the  gale  sighs  on  the 


T 


^K 


■IK 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.         v  409 

rocks  above.  Lightly  wheel  the  heroes  through  the  slumbering 
band.  Half  the  journey  io  past,  when  Mathon,  resting  on  his 
shield,  meets  the  eye  of  Orla.  It  rolls  in  flame,  and  glistens 
through  the  shade.  His  spear  is  raised  on  high.  "Why  dost 
thou  bend  thy  brow,  chief  of  Githona?"  said  fair-haired  Cal- 
mar:  "  we  are  in  the  midst  of  foes.  Is  this  a  time  for  delay?" 
"It  is  a  time  for  vengeance,"  said  Orla  of  the  gloomy  brow. 
"Mathon  of  Lochlin  sleeps:  seest  thou  his  spear?  Its  point  is 
dim  with  the  gore  of  my  father.  The  blood  of  Mathon  shall 
reek  on  mine:  but  shall  1  slay  him  sleeping,  son  of  Mora?  No! 
he  shall  feel  his  wound:  my  fame  shall  not  soar  on  the  blood  of 
slumber.  Rise,  Mathon,  rise!  The  son  of  Conna  calls;  thy  life 
is  his;  rise  to  combat."  Mathon  starts  from  slecj ;  but  did  he 
rise  alone?  No;  the  gathering  chiefs  bound  on  the  plain.  "  Fly! 
Calmar,  fly  I"  said  dark-haired  Orla.  "  Mathon  is  mine:  I  shall  die 
in  joy:  but  Lochlin  crowds  around.  Fly  through  the  shade  of 
night."  Orla  turns.  The  helm  of  Mathon  is  cleft:  his  shield 
falls  from  his  arm:  he  shudders  in  his  blood.  He  rolls  by  the 
side  of  the  blazing  oak.  Strumon  sees  him  fall:  his  wrath 
rises:  his  weapon  glitters  on  the  head  of  Orla:  but  a  spearpierced 
his  eye.  His  brain  gushes  through  the  wound,  and  foams  on  the 
spear  of  Calmar.  As  roll  the  waves  of  the  Ocean  on  two 
mighty  barks  of  the  north,  so  pour  the  men  of  Lochlin  on  the 
chiefs.  As,  breaking  the  surge  in  foam,  proudly  steer  the 
barks  of  the  north,  so  rise  the  chiefs  of  Morven  on  the.  scattered 
crests  of  Lochlin.  The  din  of  arms  came  to  the  ear  of  Fingal. 
He  strikes  his  shield;  his  sons  throng  around;  the  people  pour 
along  the  heath.  Ryno  bounds  in  joy.  Ossian  stalks  in  his 
arms.  Oscar  shakes  the  spear.  The  eagle  wing  of  Fillan  floats 
in  the  wind.  Dreadful  is  the  clang  of  death!  Many  are  the 
widows  of  Lochlin!    Morven  prevails  in  its  strength. 

Mom  glimmers  on  the  hills:  no  living  foe  is  seen;  butthe 
sleepers  are  many;  grim  they  lie  on  Erin.  The  breeze  of  ocean 
lifts  their  locks;  yet  they  do  not  awake.  The  hawks  scream 
above  their  prey. 

Whose  yellow  locks  wave  o'er  the  breast  of  a  chief?  Bright 
as  the  gold  of  the  stranger,  they  mingle  with  the  dark  hair  of 
his  friend.  'Tis  Calmar:  he  lies  on  the  bosom  of  Orla.  Theirs  is 
one  stream  of  blood.  Fierce  is  the  look  of  the  gloomy  Orla.  He 
breathes  not;  but  his  eye  is  still  a  flame.  It  glares  in  death  un- 
closed. His  hand  is  grasped  in  Calmar' s;  but  Calmar  lives!  he 
lives,  though  low.  "Rise,"  said  the  king,  "rise,  son  of  Mora: 
'tis  mine  to  heal  the  wounds  of  heroes.  Calmar  may  yet  bound 
on  the  hills  of  Morven." 

"Never  more  shall  Calmar  chase  the  deer  of  Morven  with 
Orla,"  said  the  hero.  "What  were  the  chase  to  me  alone? 
Who  should  share  the  spoils  of  battle  with  Calmar?  Orla  is  at 
rest!  Rough  was  thy  soul,  Orla!  yet  soft  to  me  as  the  dew  of 
mom.  It  glared  on  others  in  lightning:  to  me  a  silver  beam  of 
night.  Bear  my  sword  to  blue-eyed  Mora;  let  it  hang  in  my 
empty  hall.  It  is  not  pure  from  blood:  but  it  could  not  save 
Orla.  Lay  me  with  my  friend.  Raise  the  song  when  I  am 
dark!" 

They  are  laid  by  the  stream  of  Lubar.  Four  gray  stones 
mark  the  dwelling  of  Orla  and  Calmar.  When  Swaran  was 
bound,  our  sails  rose  on  the  blue  waves.  The  winds  gave  our 
barks  to  Morven: — ^the  bards  raised  the  song. 


^ — ^ 

410  .         HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

"  What  form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds?  Whose  dark  ghost 
gleams  oa  the  red  streams  of  tempests?  His  voice  rolls  on  the 
thunder.  'Tis  Orla,  the  brown  chief  of  Oithona.  He  was  un- 
matched in  war.  Peace  to  thy  soul,  Orla!  thy  fame  will  not 
perish.  Nor  thine,  Calmar!  Lovely  wast  thou,  son  of  blue-eyed 
Mora;  but  not  harmless  was  thy  sword.  It  hangs  in  thy  cave. 
The  ghosts  of  Lochlin  shriek  around  its  steel.  Hear  thy  praise, 
Calmar  1  It  dwells  on  the  voice  of  the  mighty.  Thy  name 
shakes  on  the  echoes  of  Morven.  Then  raise  thy  fair  locks,  son 
of  Mora.  Spread  them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow;  and  smile 
through  the  tears  of  the  storm."  * 


TO  EDWARD  NOEL  LONG,  ESQ. 
"Nil  ego  contulerim  jocundo  sanus  amico." — Horace. 

Dear  Long,  in  this  sequester'd  scene, 

While  all  around  in  slumber  lie. 
The  joyous  days  which  ours  have  been 

Come  rolling  fresh  on  Fancy's  eye; 
Thus  if  amidst  the  gathering  storm, 
While  clouds  the  darken 'd  noon  deform, 
Ton  heaven  assumes  a  varied  glow, 
I  hail  the  sky's  celestial  bow. 
Which  spreads  the  sign  of  future  peace, 
And  bids  the  war  of  tempests  cease. 
Ah!  though  the  present  brings  but  pain, 
I  think  those  days  may  come  again; 
Or  if,  in  melancholy  mood, 
Some  lurking  envious  fear  intrude, 
To  check  my  bosom's  fondest  thought. 

And  interrupt  the  golden  dream, 
'  I  crush  the  fiend  with  malice  fraught, 

And  still  indulge  my  wonted  theme. 
Although  we  ne'er  again  can  trace. 

In  Granta's  vale,  the  pedant's  lore; 
Nor  through  the  groves  of  Ida  chase 

Our  raptured  visions  as  before. 
Though  Youth  has  flown  on  rosy  pinion. 
And  Manhood  claims  his  stern  dominion — 
Age  will  not  every  hope  destroy. 
But  yield  some  hours  of  sober  joy. 

Yes,  I  will  hope  that  Time's  broad  wing 
Will  shed  around  some  dews  of  spring: 
But  if  his  scythe  must  sweep  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  among  the  fairy  bowers. 
Where  smiling  Youth  delights  to  dwell, 
And  hearts  with  early  rapture  swell; 
If  frowning  Age,  with  cold  control, 
Confines  the  current  of  the  soul, 

*  I  fear  Laing's  late  edition  has  completely  overth^o^^^^  every  hope 
that  Macpherson's  Ossian  might  prove  the  translation  of  a  series  of 
poems  complete  in  themselves;  but,  Miiile  the  imposture  is  discov- 
ered, the  merit  of  the  work  remains  undisputed,  thougrh  not  without 
faults— particularly,  in  some  parts,  turgid  and  bombastic  diction. 
The  present  humble  imitation  will  be  pardoned  by  the  admirers  of 
the  original  as  an  attempt,  however  inferior,  which  evinces  au  at- 
tachment to  their  favorite  author. 

**- ^ 


— m^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  411 

Congeals  the  tear  of  pity's  eye, 
Or  checks  the  sympathetic  sigh, 
Or  hears  unmoved  misfortune's  groan, 
And  bids  me  feel  for  self  alone; 
Oh,  may  my  bosom  never  learn 

To  soothe  its  wonted  heedless  flow; 
Still,  still  despise  the  censor  stern, 

But  ne'er  forget  another's  woe. 
Yes,  as  you  knew  me  in  the  days 
O'er  which  Remembrance  yet  delays, 
Still  may  I  rove,  untutor'd,  wild, 
And  even  in  age  at  heart  a  child.  ' 

Though  now  on  airy  visions  borne, 

1o  you  my  soul  is  still  the  same. 
Oft  has  it  been  my  fate  to  mourn, 

And  ail  my  former  joys  are  tame. 
But,  hence!  ye  hours  of  sable  hue! 

Your  frowns  are  gone,  my  sorrows  o'er! 
By  every  bliss  my  childhood  knew, 

I'll  think  upon  your  shade  no  more. 
Thus,  when  the  whirlwind's  rage  is  past, 

And  caves  their  sullen  roar  enclose, 
We  heed  no  more  the  wintry  blast, 

When  lull'd  by  zephyr  to  repose. 

Full  often  has  my  infant  Muse 

Attuned  to  love  her  languid  lyre; 
But  now,  without  a  theme  to  choose, 

The  strains  in  stolen  sighs  expire. 
My  youthful  nymphs,  alas!  are  flown: 

E is  a  wife,  and  C a  mother, 

And  Carolina  sighs  alone, 

And  Mary  's  given  to  another; 
And  Cora's  eye,  which  roll'd  on  me. 

Can  now  no  more  my  love  recall: 
In  truth,  dear  Long,  'twas  time  to  flee; 

For  Cora's  eye  will  shine  on  all. 
And  though  the  sun,  with  genial  rays. 
His  beam  alike  to  all  displays, 
And  every  lady's  eye  'sa  sun, 
These  last  should  be  confined  to  one. 
The  soul's  meridian  don't  become  her, 
Whose  sun  displays  a  general  summer/ 
Thus  faint  is  every  former  flame, 
And  passion's  self  is  now  a  name. 
As,  when  the  ebbing  flames  are  low. 

The  aid  which  once  improved  their  light. 
And  bade  them  burn  with  fiercer  glow. 

Now  quenches  all  their  sparks  in  night; 
/Thus  has  it  been  with  passion's  fires, 

As  many  a  boy  and  girl  remembers, 
While  all  the  force  of  love  expires, 

Extinguish'd  with  the  dying  embers. 

But  now,  dear  Long,  'tis  midnight's  noon, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  watery  moon, 
Whose  beauties  I  shall  not  rehearse, 
Described  in  every  stripling's  verse; 


^ . 

412        -  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

For  why  should  I  the  path  eo  o'er 
Which  every  bard  has  trod  Before? 
Yet  ere  yon  silver  lamp  of  night 

Has  thrice  perform' d  her  stated  round, 
Has  thrice  retraced  her  path  of  light, 

And  chased  away  the  gloom  profound, 
I  ti-ust  that  we,  my  gentle  friend, 
Shall  see  her  rolling  orbit  wend 
Above  the  dear-loved  peaceful  seat 
Which  once  contain 'd  our  youth's  retreat; 
And  then  with  those  our  childhood  knew, 
We'll  mingle  in  the  festive  crew; 
While  many  a  tale  of  former  day 
Shall  wing  the  laughing  hours  away  • 
And  all  the  flow  oi  soul  shall  pour        * 
The  sacred  intellectual  shower, 
Nor  cease  till  Luna's  waning  horn 
Scarce  glimmers  through  the  mist  of  mom. 


TO  A  LADY. 

Oh!  had  my  fate  been  join'd  with  thine. 
As  once  this  pledge  appeared  a  token. 

These  follies  had  not  then  been  mine, 
For  then  my  peace  had  not  been  broken. 

To  thee  these  early  faults  I  owe, 

To  thee,  the  wise  and  old  reproving; 
Thmr  know  my  sins,  but  do  not  know 

'Twas  thine  to  break  the  bonds  of  loving. 
For  once  my  soni,  like  thine,  was  pure, 

And  all  its  rising  fires  could  smc^her; 
But  now  thy  vows  no  more  endure, 

Bestow'd  by  thee  upon  another. 

Perhaps  his  peace  I  could  destroy, 
And  spoil  the  blisses  that  await  hfm; 

Yet  let  my  rival  smile  in  joy, 
For  thy  dear  sake  I  cannot  hate  him. 

Ah!  since  thy  angel  form  is. gone, 
Mj'  heart  no  more  can  rest  with  any; 

But  what  it  sought  in  thee  alone, 
Attempts,  alasl  to  find  in  many. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  deceitful  maid! 

'Twere  vain  and  fruitless  to  regret  thee; 
Nor  Hope,  nor  Memory  yield  their  aid, 

But  Pride  may  teach  me  to  forget  thee. 

Yet  all  this  giddy  waste  of  years, 
This  tiresome  round  of  palling  pleasures; ' 

These  varied  loves,  these  matron's  fears, 
These  thoughtless  strains  to  passion's  measures — 

If  thou  wert  mine,  had  all  been  hush'd: — 
This  cheek,  now  pale  from  early  riot, 

With  passion's  hectic  ne'er  had  flush 'd, 
But  bloom'd  in  calm  domestic  quiet. 


^h 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  413 

Yes,  once  the  rural  scene  was  sweet, 
For  Nature  seeni'd  to  smile  before  thee; 

And  ODce  my  breast  abhorr'd  deceit — 
For  then  it  beat  but  to  adore  thee. 

But  now  I  seek  for  other  joys: 

To  think  would  drive  my  soul  to 
In  thoughtless  throngs  and  empty  noise, 

I  conquer  half  my  bosom's  sadness. 

Yet,  even  in  these  a  thought  will  steal. 

In  spite  of  every  vain  endeavor — 
And  fienila  might  pity  what  I  feel — 

To  know  that  thou  art  lost  for  ever. 


I  WOULD  I  WERE  A  CARELESS  CHILD. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  careless  ehild. 

Still  dwelling  in  my  Highland  cave, 
Or  roaming  through  the  dusky  wild. 

Or  bounding  o^er  the  dark  blue  wave; 
The  cumbrous  pomp  of  Saxon  pride  * 

Accords  not  with  the  free-boru  soul. 
Which  loves  the  mountain's  craggy  side. 

And  seeks  the  rocks  where  billows  rolL 

Fortune!  take  back  these  cultured  lands. 

Take  back  this  name  of  splendid  sound! 
I  hate  the  touch  of  servile  hands, 

I  hate  the  slaves  that  cringe  around. 
Place  me  along  the  rocks  I  love. 

Which  sound  to  Ocean's  wildest  roar: 
I  ask  but  this — again  to  rove 

Through  scenes  my  youth  had  Imown  before. 

Few  are  my  years,  and  yet  I  feel 

The  world  was  ne'er  design'd  for  me: 
Ah!  why  do  darkening  shades  conceal 

The  hour  when  man  must  cease  to  be? 
Once  I  beheld  a  splendid  dream, 

A  visionary  scene  of  bliss! 
Truth! — wherefore  did  thy  hated  beam 

Awake  me  te  a  world  like  this? 

I  loved — but  those  I  loved  are  gone; 

Had  friends — my  early  friends  are  fled: 
How  cheerless  feels  the  heart  alone 

When  all  its  former  hopes  aie  dead! 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  awhile  the  sense  of  ill; 
Though  pleasure  stirs  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart — ^is  lonely  stilL 

How  dull!  to  hear  the  voice  of  those 
Whom  rank  or  chance,  whom  wealth  or  power, 

Have  made,  though  neither  friends  nor  foes, 
Associates  of  the  festive  hour. 

♦  Sassenach,  or  Saxon,  a  Oaelic  word  signifying  either  Lowland 
or  English. 


^H■ 


^ ^ 

414  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

Give  me  again  a  faithful  few, 

In  years  and  feelings  still  the  same, 
And  1  will  ily  the  midnight  crew, 

Where  boisterous  J03'  is  but  a  name« 
And  woman,  lovely  woman!  thou, 

My  hope,  my  comforter,  my  all! 
How  cold  must  be  my  bosom  now, 

When  e'en  thy  smiles  begin  to  palll 
Without  a  sigh  would  I  resign 

This  busy  scene  of  splendid  woe. 
To  make  that  calm  contentment  mine, 

Which  virtue  knows,  or  seems  to  know. 
Fain  would  I  fly  the  haunts  of  men — 

I  seek  to  shun,  not  hate  mankind; 
My  breast  requires  the  sullen  glen. 

Whose  gloom  may  suit  a  darken' d  mind. 
Oh  that  to  me  the  wings  were  given 

Which  bear  the  turtle  to  her  nest! 
Then  would  I  cleave  the  vault  of  heaven, 

To  flee  away  and  be  at  rest.* 


WHEN  I  ROVED  A  YOUNG  HIGHLANDER. 

When  I  roved  a  young  Highlander  o'er  the  dark  heath. 

And  climb'd  thy  steep  summit,  O  Morven  of  snow  If 
To  gaze  on  the  torrent  that  thunder'd  beneath. 

Or  the  mist  of  the  tempest  that  gather'd  below,  J 
Untutor'd  by  science,  a  stranger  to  fear. 

And  rude  as  the  rocks  where  my  infancy  grew, 
No  feeling,  save  one,  to  my  bosom  was  dear; 

Need  I  say,  my  sweet  Mary,  'twas  centred  in  you? 
Yet  it  could  not  be  love,  for  I  knew  not  the  name — 

What  passion  can  dwell  in  the  heart  of  a  child? 
But  still  I  perceive  an  emotion  the  same 

As  I  felt,  when  a  boy,  on  the  crag-cover'd  wild: 
One  image  alone  on  my  bosom  impress'd, 

I  loved  my  bleak  regions,  nor  panted  for  new; 
And  few  were  my  wants,  for  my  wishes  were  bless'd; 

And  pure  were  my  thoughts,  for  my  soul  was  with  you. 
I  arose  with  the  dawn;  with  my  dog  as  my  guide, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  I  bounded  along; 
I  breasted  the  billows  of  Dee's  rushing  tide,§ 

And  heard  at  a  distance  the  Highlander's  song: 

*  "And  I  said,  O  that  I  had  winps  like  a  dove !  for  then  would  I  fly- 
away, and  be  at  rest.'"— Psalm  Iv.  6.  This  verse  also  constitutes  a 
part  of  the  most  beautiful  anthem  in  our  InuKuage. 

t  Morven,  a  lofty  mountain  in  Aberdetushiro.  "Gormal  of  snow," 
is  an  expression  frequently  to  bo  found  in  Ossian. 

X  This  will  not  appear  extraordmi'.ry  to  those  who  have  been  ac- 
customed to  the  mountains.  It  is  by  no  means  uncommon,  on  at- 
taining the  top  of  Ben-e-vis,  Ben-y-bouni,  &c.,  to  perceive,  between 
the  summit  and  the  valley,  clouds  pouring  down  ram,  and  occasion- 
ally accompanied  bj  lightning,  while  the  spectator  literally  looks 
down  upon  the  storm,  perfectly  secure  from  its  effects. 

§  "  Breasting  the  lofty  surge."*' — Shakspkakk.  The  Dee  is  a  beau- 
tiful river  which  nses  near  Mar  Lodge,  and  falls  into  the  sea  at  New 
Aberdeen. 

-i *» 


^ — _ ^ 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  415 

At  eve,  on  my  heath-cover'd  couch  of  repose, 
No  dreams,  save  of  Mary,  were  spread  to  my  view; 

And  warm  to  the  skies  my  devotions  arose, 
For  the  first  of  my  prayers  was  a  blessing  on  you. 

I  left  my  bleak  home,  and  my  visions  are  gone; 

The  mountains  are  vanish'd,  my  youth  is  no  more; 
As  the  last  of  my  race,  I  must  wither  alone. 

And  delight  but  in  days  I  have  witness'd  before: 
Ah!  splendor  has  raised,  but  embitter' d  my  lot; 

More  dear  were  the  scenes  which  my  infancy  knew; 
Though  my  hopes  may  have  fail'd,  yet  they  are  not  forgot; 

Though  cold  is  my  heart,  still  it  lingers  with  you. 

When  I  see  some  dark  hill  point  its  crest  to  the  sky, 

I  think  of  the  rocks  that  overshadow  Colbleen;* 
When  I  see  the  soft  blue  of  a  love-speaking  eye, 

I  think  of  those  eyes  that  endear'd  the  rude  scene; 
When,  haply,  some  light- waving  locks  I  behold, 

That  faintly  resemble  my  Mary's  in  hue, 
1  think  on  the  long  flowing  ringlets  of  gold, 

The  locks  that  were  sacred  to  beauty,  and  you. 

Yet  the  day  may  arrive  when  the  mountains  once  more 

Shall  rise  to  my  sight  in  their  mantles  of  snow; 
But  while  these  soar  above  me,  unchanged  as  before, 

Will  Mary  be  there  to  receive  me?    Ah,  no! 
Adieu,  then,  ye  hills,  where  my  childhood  was  bred! 

Thou  sweet-flowing  Dee,  to  thy  waters  adieu! 
No  home  in  the  forest  shall  shelter  my  head— 

Ah!  Mary,  what  home  could  be  mine  but  with  you? 


TO  GEORGE,  EARL  DELAWARR. 

Oh!  yes,  I  will  own  we  were  dear  to  each  other; 

The  friendships  of  childhood,  though  fleeting,  are  true; 
The  love  which  you  felt  was  the  love  of  a  brother, 

Nor  less  the  affection  I  cherish' d  for  you. 

But  Friendship  can  vary  her  gentle  dominion; 

The  attachment  of  years  in  a  moment  expires; 
Like  Love,  too,  she  moves  on  a  swift-waving  pinion. 

But  glows  not,  like  Love,  with  unquenchable  fires. 

Full  oft  have  we  wander'd  through  Ida  together, 
And  blest  were  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  1  allow: 

In  the  spring  of  our  life,  how  serene  is  the  weatherl 
But  winter's  rude  tempests  are  gathering  now. 

No  more  with  affection  shall  memory  blending. 
The  wonted  delights  of  bur  childhood  retrace: 

When  pride  steels  the  bosom,  the  heart  is  unbending. 
And  what  would  be  justice  appears  a  disgrace. 

*  Colbleen  is  a  mountain  near  the  verge  of  the  Highlands,  not  far 
from  the  ruins  of  Dee  Castle. 

♦i *■ 


4- 


41«  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

However,  dear  George,  for  I  still  must  esteem  you — 
The  few  whom  1  love  I  can  never  upbraid — 

The  chauce  which  has  lost  may  in  future  redeem  you, 
Repentance  will  cancel  the  vow  you  have  made. 

I  will  not  complain,  and  though  chill'd  is  affection, 
With  me  no  corroding  resentment  shall  live: 

My  bosom  is  calm'd  by  the  simple  reflection, 
That  both  may  be  wrong,  and  that  both  should  forgive. 

You  knew  that  my  soul,  that  my  heart,  my  existence, 
If  danger  demanded,  were  wholly  your  own; 

You  knew  me  unalter'd  bv  years  or  by  distance, 
Devoted  to  love  and  to  friendship  alone. 

You  knew— but  away  with  the  vain  retrospection! 

The  bond  of  affection  no  longer  endures; 
Too  hite  you  may  droop  o'er  the  fond  recollection, 

And  sigh  for  the  friend  who  was  formerly  yours. 

For  the  present,  we  part — I  will  hope  not  for  ever; 

For  time  and  regret  will  restore  you  at  last. 
To  forget  our  dissension  we  both  should  endeavor, 

I  ask  no  atonement,  but  days  like  the  past. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  CLARE. 

"Tu  semper  amoris 
Sis  memor,  et  carl  comitis  ne  abscedat  imago." 

Vau  Flac. 

Friend  of  my  youth!  when  young  we  roved, 
Like  striplings,  mutually  beloved. 

With  friendship's  purest  glow. 
The  bliss  which  wing'd  those  rosy  hours 
Was  such  as  pleasure  seldom  showers 

On  mortals  here  below. 

The  recollection  seems  alone 
Dearer  than  all  the  joys  I've  knowc, 

When  distant  far  from  you: 
Though  pain,  'tis  still  a  pleasing  pain, 
To  trace  those  days  and  hours  again, 

And  sigh  again,  adieu ! 

My  pensive  memory  lingers  o'er 
Those  scenes  to  be  enjoy'd  no  more, 

Those  scenes  regretted  ever; 
The  measure  of  our  youth  is  full, 
Life's  evening  dream  is  dark  and  dull. 

And  we  may  meet — ah!  never! 

As  when  one  parent  spring  supplies 

Two  streams  which  from  one  fountain  rise. 

Together  join'd  In  vain; 
How  soon,  diverging  from  their  source. 
Each,  murmuring,  seeks  another  course 

Till  mingled  in  the  main! 


*ih 


HOURS  OF  IDLENESS".  411- 

Our  vital  streams  of  weal  or  woe, 
Though  near,  alas!  distinctly  flow, 

Nor  mingle  as  before: 
Now  swift  or  slow,  now  black  or  clear. 
Till  death's  unfathom'd  gulf  appear. 

And  both  shall  quit  the  shore. 

Our  souls,  my  friend!  which  once  supplied 
One  wish,  nor  breathed  a  thought  beside. 

Now  flow  in  different  channels: 
Disdaining  humbler  rural  sports, 
'Tis  yours  to  mix  in  polish'd  courts. 

And  shine  in  fashion's  annals; 

'Tis  mine  to  waste  on  love  my  time, 
Or  vent  my  reveries  in  rhyme. 

Without  the  aid  of  reason; 
For  sense  and  reason  (critics  know  it) 
Have  quitted  every  amorous  poet, 

Nor  left  a  thought  to  seize  on. 

Poor  Little!  sweet,  melodious  bard! 
Of  late  esteem'd  it  monstrous  hard, 

That  he,  who  sang  before  all— 
He  who  the  lore  of  love  expanded — 
By  dire  reviewers  should  be  branded. 

As  void  of  wit  and  moral.* 

And  yet,  while  Beauty's  praise  is  thine, 
Harmonious  favorite  of  the  Nine! 

Repine  not  at  thy  lot. 
Thy  soothing  lays  may  still  be  read, 
When  Persecution's  arm  is  dead, 

And  critics  are  forgot. 

Still  I  must  yield  those  worthies  merit. 
Who  chasten,  with  unsparing  spirit. 

Bad  rhymes,  and  those  who  write  them; 
And  though  myself  may  be  the  next 
By  critic  sarcasm  to  be  vext, 

I  really  will  not  fight  them.t 

Perhaps  they  would  do  quite  as  well 
To  break  the  rudely  sounding  shell     - 

Of  such  a  young  beginner. 
He  who  offends  at  pert  nineteen, 
Ere  thirty  may  become,  I  ween, 

A  very  harden'd  sinner. 

Now,  Clare,  I  must  return  to  you; 
And,  sure,  apologies  are  due: 
Accept,  then,  my  concession. 

♦  These  stanzas  were  written  soon  after  the  appearance  of  a  se- 
vere critique  in  a  northern  review,  on  a  new  publication,  of  the  Brit- 
ish Anacreon, 

t  A  bard  (horresco  referens)  defied  his  reviewer  to  mortal  combat. 
If  this  example  becomes  prevalent,  our  periodical  censors  must  be 
dipped  in  the  r'wer  Styx;  for  what  else  can  secure  them  from  the 
numerous  host  of  their  enraged  assailants? 


^ 

418  HOURS  OF  IDLENESS. 

In  truth,  dear  Clare,  in  fancy's  flight 
I  soar  along  from  left  to  right! 
My  muse  admires  digression. 

I  think  I  said  'twould  be  your  fate 
To  add  one  star  to  royal  state; — 

May  regal  smiles  attend  youi 
And  should  a  noble  monarch  reign, 
You  will  not  seek  his  smiles  in  vain, 

If  worth  can  recommend  you. 

Yet  since  in  danger  courts  abound. 
Where  specious  rivals  glitter  round. 

From  snares  may  saints  pi-eserve  you; 
And  grant  your  love  or  friendship  ne'er 
From  any  claim  a  kindred  care, 

But  those  who  best  deserve  you! 

Not  for  a  moment  may  you  stray 
From  truth's  secure,  unerring  way! 

May  no  delights  decoy! 
O'er  roses  may  your  footsteps  move, 
Your  smiles  be  ever  smiles  of  love, 

Your  teai's  be  tears  of  joy! 

Oh!  if  you  wish  that  happiness 

Your  coming  days  and  years  may  bless, 

And  virtues  crown  your  brow;' 
Be  still  as  you  Avere  wont  to  be. 
Spotless  as  you've  been  known  to  me — 

Be  still  as  you  are  now. 

And  though  some  trifling  share  of  praise, 
To  cheer  my  last  declining  days. 

To  me  were  doubly  dear;  ' 

Whilst  blessing  your  beloved  name, 
I  'd  waive  at  once  a  poeVs  fame. 

To  prove  &  prophet  here. 


4- 


LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  AN  ELM  IN  THE  CHURCH- 
YARD OF  HARROW. 

Spot  of  my  youth!  whose  hoary  branches  sigh. 
Swept  by  the  breeze  that  fans  thy  cloudless  sky; 
Where  now  alone  I  muse,  who  oft  have  trod. 
With  those  I  loved,  thy  soft  and  verdant  sod; 
With  those  who,  scatter' d  far,  perchance  deplore, 
Like  me,  the  happy  scenes  they  knew  before: 
Oh!  as  I  trace  again  thy  winding  hill, 
Mine  eyes  admire,  my  heart  adores  thee  still. 
Thou  drooping  Elm!  beneath  whose  boughs  I  lay. 
And  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away: 
Where,  as  they  once  were  wont,  my  limbs  recline. 
But  ah!  without  the  thoughts  which  then  were  mine: 
How  do  thv  branches,  moaning  to  the  blast. 
Invite  the  bosom  to  recall  the  past. 


*- 

HOURS  OF  IDLENESS.  419 

And  seem  to  whisper,  as  they  gently  swell, 

"  Take,  while  thou  canst,  a  lingering,  last  farewell!" 

When  fate  shall  chill,  at  length,  this  fever' d  breast, 
And  calm  its  cares  and  passions  into  rest, 
Oft  have  I  thought,  'twould  soothe  my  dying  hour— 
If  aught  may  soothe  when  life  resigns  her  power- 
To  know  some  humbler  grave,  some  narrow  cell, 
Would  hide  my  bosom  where  it  loved  to  dwell. 
With  this  fond  dream,  methinks,  'twere  sweet  to  die— 
And  here  it  linger'd,  here  my  heart  might  lie; 
Here  might  I  sleep  where  all  my  hopes  arose; 
Scene  of  my  youth,  and  couch  of  my  repose; 
For  ever  stretch'd  beneath  this  mantling  shade, 
Press'd  by  the  turf  where  once  my  childhood  play'd, 
Wrapt  by  the  soil  that  veils  the  spot  I  loved, 
Mix'd  with  the  earth  o'er  which  my  footsteps  moved: 
Blest  by  the  tongues  that  charm'd  my  youthful  ear, 
Moum'd  by  the  few  my  soul  acknowledged  here; 
Deplored  by  those  in  early  days  allied. 
And  unremember'd  by  the  world  beside. 
September  2, 1807. 


-HI Or 


Ml- 


ENGLISH  BARDS 

AND 

SCOTCH   REVIEWERS: 


A  SATIRE. 


'  I  had  rather  be  a  kitten,  and  cry  mew! 
Than  one  of  these  same  metre  ballad-mongers." 

Shakspeare. 

'  Such  shameless  bards  we  have ;  and  yet,  tis  true. 
There  are  as  mad,  abandoned  critics  too." 

FOFK. 


*iir 


4- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 


All  my  friends,  learned  and  unlearned,  have  urged  me  not  to 
publish  this  Satire  with  my  name.  If  I  were  to  be  "turn'd  from 
the  career  of  my  humor  by  quibbles  quick,  and  paper  bullets  of  the 
brain,"  I  should  have  complied  with  their  counsel;  but  I  am  not  to  be 
terrified  by  abuse,  or  bullied  by  reviewers,  with  or  without  arms. 
I  can  safely  say  that  I  have  attacked  none  persoiudly  who  did  not 
commence  on  the  offensive.  An  author's  works  are  public  prop- 
erty: he  who  purchases  may  judge,  and  pubhsh  his  opinion  if 
he  pleases ;  and  the  authors  I  have  endeavored  to  commemorate 
may  do  by  me  as  I  have  done  by  them :  I  dare  say  they  will  succeed 
better  in  condemning  my  scribblings  than  in  mending  their  own. 
But  my  object  is  not  to  prove  that  I  can  write  well,  but,  if  possible, 
to  make  others  write  better. 

As  the  poem  has  met  with  far  more  success  than  I  expected,  I 
have  endeavored  in  this  edition  to  make  some  additions  and  altera- 
tions, to  render  it  more  worthy  of  public  perusal. 

In  the  First  Edition  of  this  Satire,  pubhshed  anonymously,  four- 
teen lines  on  the  subject  of  Bowles's  Pope  were  written  %,  and 
inserted  at  the  request  of,  an  ingenious  friend  of  mine,  who  has  now 
in  the  press  a  volume  of  poetry.  In  the  present  edition  they  are 
erased,  and  some  of  my  own  substituted  in  their  stead ;  my  only 
reason  for  this  being  that  which  I  conceive  would  operate  with  any- 
other  person  in  the  same  manner— a  determinaticni  not  to  publish 
with  my  name  any  production  which  was  not  entirely  and  exclu- 
sively my  own  composition. 

With  regard  to  the  real  talents  of  many  of  the  poetical  persons 
whose  performances  are  mentioned,  or  alluded  to,  in  the  fol- 
lowing pages,  it  is  presumed  by  the  author  that  there  can  be 
little  difference  of  opinion  in  the  public  at  larpre;  though,  like  other 
sectaries,  each  has  his  separate  tabernacle  of  proselytes,  by  whom 
his  abilities  are  overrated,  his  faults  overlooked,  and  his  metrical 
canons  received  without  scruple  and  without  consideration.  But 
the  uncjuestionable  possession  of  considerable  genius  by  several  of 
the  writers  here  censured,  renders  their  mental  prostitution  more 
to  be  regretted.  Imbecility  may  be  pitied,  or,  at  trie  worst,  laughed 
at  and  forgotten;  perverted  powers  oemand  the  most  decided  repre- 
hension. No  one  can  wish  more  than  the  author,  that  some  known 
and  able  writer  had  undertaken  their  exposure;  but  Mr.  Gifford 
has  devoted  himself  to  Massinger,  and  In  the  absence  of  the  regular 
physician,  a  country  practitioner  may,  in  oases  of  absolute  neces- 
sity, be  allowed  to  prescribe  his  nostrum  to  prevent  the  extension 
of  so  deplorable  an  epidemic,  provided  there  be  no  quackery  in  his 
treatment  of  the  malady.  A  caustic  is  here  offered,  as  it  is  to  be 
feared  nothing  short  of  actual  cautery  can  recover  the  numerous 
patients  afflicted  with  the  present  prevalent  and  distressing  rabies 
for  rhyming. 

As  to  the  Edinburtrh  Reviewers,  it  would  indeed  require  a  Her- 
cules to  crush  the  Hydra;  but  if  the  author  succeeds  in  merely 
"bniisingoneof  the  heads  of  the  serpent,"  though  his  own  hand 
should  suffer  in  the  encounter,  he  will  be  amply  satisfied. 


^H■ 


■Ht 


^i JH- 


ENGLISH    BARDS   AND    SCOTCH 
REVIEWERS. 


Still  must  I  hear?— shall  hoarse  Fitzgerald  bawl* 
His  creaking  couplets  in  a  tavern  hall, 
And  I  not  sing,  lest,  haply,  Scotch  reviews 
Should  dub  me  scribbler,  and  denounce  my  muse? 
Prepare  for  rhyme— I'll  publish,  right  or  wrong; 
Fools  are  my  theme,  let  satire  be  my  song. 

Oh!  nature's  noblest  gift— my  gray  goose-quill! 
Slave  of  my  thoughts,  obedient  to  my  will, 
Torn  from  thy  parent  bird  to  form  a  pen, 
That  mighty  instrument  of  little  men! 
The  pen!  foredoom'd  to  aid  the  mental  throes 
Of  brains  that  labor,  big  with  verse  or  prose. 
Though  nymphs  forsake,  and  critics  may  deride, 
The  lover's  solace,  and  the  author's  pride. 
What  wits,  what  poets,  dost  thou  daily  raise! 
How  frequent  is  thy  use,  how  small  thy  praise! 
Condemn'd  at  length  to  be  forgotten  quite, 
With  all  the  pages  which  'twas  thine  to  write. 
But  thou,  at  least,  mine  own  especial  pen! 
Once  laid  aside,  but  now  assumed  again. 
Our  task  complete,  like  Hamet's  shall  be  free;t 
Though  spum'd  by  others,  yet  beloved  by  me: 
Then  let  us  soar  to-day;  no  common  theme, 
No  Eastern  vision,  no  distemper'd  dream 
Inspires — our  path,  though  full  of  thorns,  is  plain; 
Smooth  be  the  verse,  and  easy  be  the  strain. 

When  Vice  triumphant  holds  her  sovereign  sway, 
And  men  through  life  her  willing  slaves  obey; 

♦Imitation: 

"  Semper  ego  auditor  tantum?  nunquamne  reponani, 
Vexatus  toties  rauci  Theseide  Codri?" 

Juvenal,  Satire  1 
Mr.  Fitzgerald,  facetiously  temied  by  Cobbett  the  "Small  Beer 
Poet,"  inflicts  his  annual  tribute  of  verse  on  the  "Literary  Fund;" 
not  content  with  writing,  he  spouts  in  person,  after  the  company 
have  imbibed  a  reasonable  quantity  of  bad  port,  to  enable  them  to 
sustain  the  operation 

t  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  promises  repose  to  his  pen,  in  the  last 
chapter  of  "Don  Quixote.'^  Oh  that  our  voluminous  gentry  would 
follow  the  example  of  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  1 

^ ^ 


^ 

4S4  ENGLISH  BARDS 

When  Folly,  frequent  harbinger  of  crime, 
Unfolds  her  motley  store  to  suit  the  time; 
When  knaves  and  fools  combined  o'er  all  prevail, 
When  justice  halts,  and  right  begins  to  fail; 
E'en  then  the  boldest  start  from  public  sneers. 
Afraid  of  shame,  unknown  to  other  fears. 
More  darkly  sin,  by  satire  kept  in  awe. 
And  shrink  from  ridicule,  though  not  from  law. 

Such  is  the  force  of  wit!  but  not  belong 
To  me  the  arrows  of  satiric  song; 
The  royul  vices  of  our  age  demand 
A  keener  weapon,  and  a  mightier  hand. 
Still  there  are  follies  e'en  for  me  to  chase. 
And  3aeld  at  least  amusement  in  the  race: 
Laugh  when  I  laugh,  I  seek  no  other  fame; 
The  cry  is  up,  and  scribblers  are  my  game. 
Speed,  Pegasus!— ye  strains  of  great  and  small, 
Ode,  epic,  elegy,  have  at  you  all! 
I  too  can  scrawl,  and  once  upon  a  time 
I  pour'd  along  the  town  a  flood  of  rhyme. 
A  schoolboy  rreak,  unworthy  praise  or  blame; 
I  printed — older  children  do  the  same. 
'Tis  pleasant,  sure,  to  see  one's  name  in  print; 
A  book  's  a  book,  although  there  's  nothing  in't. 
Not  that  a  title's  sounding  charm  can  save 
Or  scrawl  or  scribbler  from  an  equal  grave: 
This  Lambe  must  own,  since  his  patncian  name 
Fail'd  to  preserve  the  spurious  farce  from  shame.* 
No  matter,  George  continues  still  to  write,t 
Though  now  the  name  is  veil'd  from  public  sight. 
Moved  by  the  great  example,  I  pursue 
The  self-same  road,  but  make  my  own  review: 
Not  seek  great  Jeffrey's,  yet  like  him  will  be 
Self -constituted  judge  of  poesy. 

A  man  must  serve  his  time  to  every  trade 
Save  censure — critics  all  are  ready  made. 
Take  hackney'd  jokes  from  Miller,  got  by  rote, 
With  just  enough  of  learning  to  misquote; 
A  mind  well  skill'd  to  find  or  forge  a  fault* 
A  turn  for  punning,  call  it  Attic  salt; 
To  Jeffrey  go,  be  silent  and  discreet, 
His  pay  is  just  ten  sterling  pounds  per  sheet. 
Fear  not  to  lie,  'twill  seem  a  lucky  hit; 
Shrink  not  from  blasphemy,  'twill  pass  for  wit; 
Care  not  for  feeling — pass  your  proper  jest, 
And  stand  a  critic,  hated  yet  caress'd. 

And  shall  we  own  such  judgment?  no — as  soon 
Seek  roses  in  December— ice  in  June; 
Hope  constancy  in  wind,  or  com  in  chaff: 
Believe  a  woman,  or  an  epitaph, 
Or  any  other  thing  that 's  false,  before 
You  trust  in  critics,  who  themselves  are  sore; 

*  This  inj^enious  youth  is  montion«td  more  particularly,  with  his 
j>roduction,  in  another  pla<^. 
t  In  the  "  EdinlTUrch  *" '  "^"^ 

♦* 


r 


AND  SCOTCH  REVEIWERS.  425 

Or  yield  one  single  thought  to  be  misled 
By  Jettrey's  heart,  or  Lambe's  Boeotian  head.* 
To  these  young  tyrants,  by  themselves  misplaced,t 
Combined  usurpers  on  the  throne  of  taste; 
To  these,  when  authors  bead  in  humble  awe. 
And  hail  their  voice  as  truth,  their  word  as  law — 
While  these  are  censors,  'twould  be  sin  to  spare; 
While  such  are  critics,  why  should  I  forbear? 
But  yet,  so  near  all  modern  worthies  run, 
'Tis  doubtful  whom  to  seek,  or  whom  to  shun; 
Nor  know  we  when  to  spare,  or  where  to  strike, 
Our  bards  and  censors  are  so  much  alike. 

Then  should  you  ask  me,  why  I  venture  o'ert 
The  path  that  Pope  and  Gifford  trod  before; 
If  not  yet  sicken'd,  you  can  still  proceed: 
Go  on:  my  rhyme  will  tell  you  as  you  read. 

Time  was,  ere  yet  in  these  degenerate  days 
Ignoble  themes  obtain 'd  mistaken  praise, 
When  sense  and  wit  with  poesy  allied. 
No  fabled  graces,  flourislr d,  side  by  side. 
From  the  same  fount  their  inspiration  drew, 
And,  rear'd  by  taste,  bloom'd  fairer  as  they  grew. 
Then,  in  this  happy  isle,  a  Pope's  pure  strain 
Sought  the  rapt  soul  to  charm,  nor  sought  in  vain: 
A  pblish'd  nation's  praise  aspired  to  claim, 
And  raised  the  people's,  as  the  poet's  fame. 
Like  him  great  Dryden  pour'd  the  tide  of  song. 
In  stream  less  smooth,  indeed,  yet  doubly  strong. 
Then  Congreve's  scenes  could  cheer,  or  Otway's  melt; 
For  nature  then  an  English  audience  felt. 
But  why  these  names,  or  greater  still,  retrace, 
When  all  to  feebler  bards  resign  their  place? 
Yet  to  such  times  our  lingering  looks  are  cast, 
When  taste  and  reason  with  those  times  are  past. 
Now  look  around,  and  turn  each  trifling  page, 
Survey  the  precious  works  that  please  the  age; 
This  truth  at  least  let  satire's  self  allow. 
No  dearth  of  bards  can  be  complain'd  of  now: 
The  loaded  press  beneath  her  labor  groans. 
And  printers'  devils  shake  their  weary  bones; 
While  Southey's  epics  cram  the  creaking  shelves, 
And  Little's  lyrics  shine  in  hot-press'd  twelves. 

Thus  saith  the  preacher:  **  Nought  beneath  the  sun 
Is  new;"§  yet  still  from  change  to  change  we  run: 

♦  Messrs.  .Teffrey  and  Lambe  are  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  the  first 
and  last,  of  the  "Edinburgh  Review;"  the  others  are  mentioned 
hereafter, 
t  Imitation: 

"  Stulta  est  dementia,  cum  tot  ubique 

occurras  periturse  chartae." 

JuvEKAL,  Satire  1. 
t  Imitation: 

"  Cur  tamen  hoc  libeat  potius  decurrere  campo 
Per  quern  magnus  equos  Auruncae  flexit  alumnus: 
Si  vacat,  et  placid!  rationem  admittitis,  edam." 
Jttvenal,  Satire  1. 
S  Ecclesiastes  I.  ^-«, 


^ —^ 

426  ENGLISH  BARDS 

What  varied  wonders  tempt  us  as  they  pass! 
The  cow-pox,  tractors,  galvanism,  and  gas, 
In  turns  appear,  to  make  the  vulgar  stare, 
Till  the  swoln  bubble  bursts — and  all  is  air! 
Nor  less  new  schools  of  Poetry  arise 
Where  dull  pretenders  grapple  for  the  prize: 
O'er  taste  awhile  these  pseudo-bards  prevail: 
Each  country  book-club  bows  the  knee  to  Baal, 
And  hurling  lawful  genius  from  the  throne, 
Erects  a  shrine  and  idol  of  its  own; 
Some  leaden  calf — but  whom  it  matters  not, 
Erom  soaring  Southey  down  to  grovelling  Stott.* 

Behold!  in  various  throngs  the  scribbling  crew, 
For  notice  eager,  pass  in  long  review: 
Each  spurs  his  jaded  Pegasus  apace, 
And  rhyme  and  blank  maintain  an  equal  race; 
Sonnets  on  sonnets  crowd,  and  ode  on  ode; 
And  tales  of  terror  jostle  on  the  road; 
Immeasurable  measures  move  along. 
For  simpering  folly  loves  a  varied  song. 
To  strange  mysterious  dullness  still  the  friend, 
Admires  the  strain  she  cannot  comprehend. 

Thus  Lays  of  Minstrels — may  they  be  the  last! — t 
On  half-strunj^  harps  whine  mournful  to  the  blast; 
While  mountain  spirits  prate  to  river  sprites, 
That  dames  may  listen  to  the  sound  at  nights; 

*  Stott,  better  known  in  the  "Morning  Post"  by  the  name  of 
Haflz.  This  person  is  at  present  the  most  profound  explorer  of  the 
bathos.  I  remember,  when  the  reigniiig  family  left  Portugal,  a 
special  ode  of  Master  Stott 's,  beginning  thus  (Stott  loquitur  quoad 
Hibernia): — 

"  Princely  offspring  of  Braganza, 
Erin  greets  thee  with  a  stanza,"  &c.,  &c. 

Also  a  sonnet  to  Rats,  well  worthy  of  the  subject;  and  a  most  thun- 
dering ode,  commencing  as  follows: 

"  Oh  for  a  lay,  loud  as  the  sur^e 
That  lashes  Lapland's  sounding  shore!" 

Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  the  *'  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel "  was  nothing 
to  this. 

t  See  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  passim.  Never  was  any 
plan  so  incongruous  and  absurd  as  the  groundwork  of  this  produc- 
tion. The  entrance  of  Thunder  and  Lightning  prologuizing  to  Bayes' 
Tragedv,  imfortunately  takes  away  the  merit  of  originality  from 
the  dialogue  between  Messieurs  the  Spirit  of  Flood  and  Fell  in  the 
first  canto.  Then  we  have  the  amiable  William  of  Deloraine,  "a 
stai-k  mosstrooper,"  videlicet,  a  happy  compound  of  poacher,  sheep- 
Rtealer,  and  highwavraan.  The  propriety  of  his  magical  lady's  in- 
junction not  to  read  can  only  be  equaled  by  his  candid  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  independence  of  the  trammels  of  spelling,  although, 
to  use  his  own  elegant  phrase,  "  '  twas  his  neck-verse  at  ilarribee," 
i.  e.,  the  gallows. 

The  biography  of  Gilpin  Horner,  and  the  marvellous  pedestrian 
page,  who  travelled  twice  as  fast  as  his  master's  horse,  without  the 
aid  of  seven-leagued  boots,  are  dwfs-cVceuvre  in  the  improvementof 
taste.  For  incident  we  have  the  invisible,  but  by  no  means  sparing, 
box  on  the  ear  bestowed  on  the  page,  and  the  entrance  of  a  knight 
and  charger  into  the  castle,  under  the  very  natural  disguise  of  a 
wain  of  hay.  Mannion,  the  hero  of  the  latter  ronumco,  is  exactly 
what  William  of  Deloraine  would  have  been,  had  he  been  able  to 

♦* 


-a fr 

AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  427 

And  goblin  brats,  of  Gilpin  Homer's  brood, 
Decoy  young  border  nobles  through  the  wood, 
•  And  skip  at  every  step,  Lord  knows  how  high, 

And  frighten  foolish  babes,  the  Lord  knows  why; 
While  high-born  ladies  in  their  magic  cell, 
Forbidding  knights  to  read  who  cannot  spell, 
Dispatch  a  courier  to  a  wizard's  grave. 
And  fight  with  honest  men  to  shield  a  knave. 

Next  view  in  state,  proud  prancing  on  his  roan, 
The  golden-crested  haughty  Marmion, 
Now  forging  scrolls,  now  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Not  quite  a  felon,  yet  but  half  a  knight. 
The  gibbet  or  the  field  prepared  to  grace; 
A  mighty  mixture  of  the  great  and  base. 
And  think'st  thou,  Scott!  by  vain  conceit  perchance, 
On  public  taste  to  foist  thy  stale  romance? 
Though  Murray  with  his  Miller  may  combine 
To  yield  thy  muse  just  half-a-crown  per  line? 
No!  when  the  sons  of  song  descend  to  trade. 
Their  bays  are  sear,  their  former  laurels  fade.  r 

Let  such  forego  the  poet's  sacred  name. 
Who  rack  their  brains  for  lucre,  not  for  fame: 
Low  may  they  sink  to  merited  contempt, 
And  scorn  remunerate  the  mean  attempt! 
Such  be  their  meed,  such  still  the  just  reward 
Of  prostituted  muse  and  hireling  bard! 
For  this  Ave  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son. 
And  bid  a  long  "  good-night  to  Marmion."* 

These  are  the  themes  that  claim  our  plaudits  now; 
These  are  the  bards  to  whom  the  muse  must  bow: 
While  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  alike  forgot. 
Resign  their  hallow' d  bays  to  Walter  Scott. 

The  time  has  been,  when  yet  the  muse  was  young, 
When  Homer  swept  the  lyre,  and  Maro  sung. 
An  epic  scarce  ten  centuries  could  claim. 
While  awe-struck  nations  hail'd  the  magic  name; 
The  work  of  each  immortal  bard  appears 
The  single  wonder  of  a  thousand  years.t 
Empires  have  moulder'd  from  the  face  of  earth. 
Tongues  have  expired  with  those  who  gave  them  birth, 
Without  the  glory  such  a  strain  can  give. 
As  even  in  ruin  bids  the  language  live. 

read  and  write.  The  poem  was  manufactured  for  Messrs.  Constable, 
Murray,  and  Miller,  worshipful  booksellers,  in  consideration  of  the 
receipt  of  a  sum  of  money;  and  truly,  considering  the  inspiration,  it 
is  a  very  creditable  production.  If  Mr.  Scott  will  write  for  hire,  let 
him  do  his  best  for  his  paymasters,  but  not  disgrace  his  genius, 
which  is  undoubtedly  great,  by  a  repetition  of  black-letter  ballad 
imitations. 

*  "Good-night  to  Marmion  "—the  pathetic  and  also  prophetic  ex- 
clamation of  Henry  Blount,  Esquire,  on  the  death  of  honest  Mar- 
mion. 

+  As  the  "  Odyssey ''  is  so  closely  connected  with  the  story  of  the 
"Iliad."  they  may  almost  be  classed  as  one  grand  historical  poem. 
In  alluding  to  Milton  and  Tasso,  we  consider  the  "  Paradise  Lost " 
and  "Gierusalemme  Liberata,"  as  their  standard  efforts,  since  nei- 
ther the  "Jerusalem  Conquered"  of  the  Italian,  nor  the  "Paradiso 

♦* # 


428  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Not  so  with  lis,  tboujjh  minor  bards  content, 
On  one  great  work  a  life  of  labor  spent: 
With  eagle  pinion  soaring  to  the  skies, 
Behold  t!ie  ballad-mont^cr  Southey  rise! 
To  him  let  Camocns,  I^tilton,  Tasso  yield, 
Whose  annual  strains,  like  armies,  take  the  field. 

,rirst  in  the  ranks  see  Joan  of  Arc  advance, 
The  scour-^e  of  Enj^land,  and  the  boast  of  France! 
Though  burnt  by  wicked  Bedford  for  a  witch. 
Behold  her  statue  placed  in  glory's  niche; 
Her  fetters  burst,  and  just  released  from  prison, 
A  virgin  phoenix  from  her  ashes  risen. 
Next  see  tremendous  Thalaba  come  on,* 
Arabia's  monstrous,  wild,  and  wondrous  son; 
Domdaniel's  dread  destroyer,  who  o'erthrew 
More  mad  magicians  than  the  world  ere  knew. 
Immortal  hero!  all  thy  foes  o'ercome, 
For  ever  reign — the  rival  of  Tom  Thumb! 
Since  startled  metre  fled  before  thy  face. 
Well  wert  thou  doom'd  the  last  of  all  thy  racel 
Well  might  triumphant  genii  bear  thee  hence. 
Illustrious  conqueror  of  common  sense! 
Now,  last  and  greatest,  Madoc  spreads  his  sails, 
Cacique  in  Mexico,  and  prince  in  Wales; 
Tells  us  strange  tales,  as  other  travellers  do, 
More  old  than  Mandeville's,  and  not  so  true. 
O  Southey,  Southey,  cease  thy  varied  songlf 
A  bard  may  chant  too  often  and  too  long; 
As  thou  art  strong  in  verse,  in  mercy  spare! 
A  fourth,  alas!  were  more  than  we  could  bear. 
But  if,  in  spite  of  all  the  world  can  say, 
Thou  still  wilt  verseward  plod  thy  weary  way; 
If  still  in  Berkley  ballads  most  uncivil. 
Thou  wilt  devote  old  women  to  the  devil,  J 
The  babe  unborn  thy  dread  intent  may  rue: 
**God  help  thee,"  Southey,  and  thy  readers  too.§ 

Regained  "  of  the  English  Bard,  obtained  a  proportionate  celebrity 
to  their  former  powers.  Query:  Which  of  Mr.  Southey 's  will  sur- 
vive? 

*  "Thalaba,"  Mr.  Southey's  second  poem,  is  written  in  open  defi- 
ance of  precedent  and  poetry.  Mr.  S.  wished  to  produce  something 
novel,  and  succeeded  to  a  miracle.  "Joan  of  Arc  "  was  marvellous 
enough,  but  "Thalaba"  was  one  of  those  poems,  "which,"  in  the 
words  of  Porson,  'will  be  read  when  Homer  and  Virgil  are  forgot- 
ten, but — 7wt  till  then.'''' 

t  We  beg  Mr.  Southey's  pardon;  ''Madoc  disdains  the  degraded 
title  of  epic."  See  his  preface.  Why  is  epic  degraded?  and  by 
whom?  Certainly  the  late  lomauntsof  Mastei-s Cotile,  Laureat  Pye, 
Ogilvy,  Hole,  and  gentle  Mistress  Cowley,  have  not  exalted  the  epic 
muse;  but  as  Mr.  Southey's  poem  "disdains  the  appellation,"  allow 
us  to  ask— Has  he  substituted  anything  bettt  r  in  its  stead?  or  must 
he  be  content  to  rival  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  in  the  quantity  as  well 
as  quality  of  his  verse? 

tSee  "The  Old  Woman  of  Berkley,"  a  ballad  by  Mr.  Southey, 
wherein  an  aged  gentlewoman  is  carried  away  by  Beelzebub,  on  a 
"  li  igh  trotting-horse. " 

§  The  last  line,  "God  help  thee,"  is  an  evident  plagiarism  from  the 
"Anti-Jacobin"  to  Mr.  Southey  on  his  Dactylics.  "God  help  thee, 
silly  one."— Poetry  of  the  "Anti-Jacobin,"  page  88. 


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AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  429 

Next  comes  the  dull  disciple  of  thy  school, 
That  mild  apostate  from  poetic  rule, 
The  simple  Wordsworth,  framer  of  a  lay 
As  soft  as  evening  in  -his  favorite  May, 
Who  warns  his  friend  "  to  shake  otf  toil  and  trouble. 
And  quit  his  books  for  fear  of  growing  double;"* 
Who,  both  by  precept  and  example,  shows 
That  prose  is  verse,  and  verse  is  merely  prose; 
Convincing  all,  by  demonstration  plain, 
Poetic  souls  delight  in  prose  insane; 
And  Christmas  stories  tortured  into  rhyme 
Contain  the  essence  of  the  true  sublime. 
Thus,  when  he  tells  the  tale  of  Betty  Foy, 
The  idiot  mother  of  "an  idiot  boy," 
A  moon-struck,  silly  lad,  who  lost  his  way, 
And,  like  his  bard,  confounded  night  with  day;t 
So  close  on  each  pathetic  part  he  dwells, 
And  each  adventure  so  sublimely  tells, 
That  all  who  view  the  "  idiot  in  his  glory," 
Conceive  the  bard  the  hero  of  the  story. 

Shall  gentle  Coleridge  pass  unnoticed  here. 
To  turgid  ode  and  tumid  stanza  dear? 
Though  themes  of  innocence  amuse  him  best, 
Yet  still  obscurity  's  a  welcome  guest. 
If  Inspiration  should  her  aid  refuse 
To  him  who  takes  a  pixy  for  a  rause,^ 
Yet  none  in  lofty  numbers  can  surpass 
The  bard  who  soars  to  elegize  an  ass. 
How  well  the  subject  suits  his  noble  mind! 
"A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind." 

Oh!  wonder-working  Lewis!  monk,  or  bard, 
Who  fain  would  make  Parnassus  a  churchyard! 
Lo!  wreathes  of  yew,  not  laurel,  bind  thy  brow, 
Thy  muse  a  sprite,  Apollo's  sexton  thou! 
Whether  on  ancient  tombs  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
By  gibbering  spectres  hail'd,  thy  kindred  band; 
Or  tracest  chaste  descriptions  on  thy  page. 
To  please  the  females  of  our  modest  age; 
All  hail,  M.  P.!§  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train; 

♦  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  page  4.— "The  Tables  Turned,"  Stanza  1. 
"  Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks, 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 
Up,  up,  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double." 
tMr.  W.  in  his  preface  labors  hard  to  prove  that  prose  and  verse 
are  much  the  same;  and  certainly  his  precepts  and  practice  are 
strictly  conformable: 

"  And  thus  to  Betty's  question  he 

Made  answer,  like  a  traveller  bold; 
The  cock  did  crow  to-whoo.  to-whoo, 
And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold,"  &c.,  &c. 

Lyrical  Ballads,  page  129. 
tCoIeridge's  Poems,  page  11,  "  Songs  of  the  Pixies,"-  /.  <-.,  Devon- 
shire fairies.    Page  42,  we  have,   "Lines  to  a  Young  Lady,"  and  ', 
pai,'e  52.  "  Lines  to  a  Young  Ass. " 

§  "  For  every  one  knows  little  Matt 's  an  M.  P.  "-See  a  Poem  to  Mr. 
Lewis,  in  the  ^'Statesman,"  su[)posed  to  be  written  by  Mr.  Jekyll. 

-* IK 


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480  ENGLISH  BARDS 

At  whose  command  "  grim  women  "  throng  in  crowds, 

And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 

With  "small  gray  men,"  "  wild  yagers,"  and  whatnot, 

To  crown  with  honor  thee  and  Walter  Scott! 

Again,  all  hail  I  if  tales  like  thine  may  please, 

St.  Luke  alone  can  vanquish  the  disease: 

Even  Satan's  self  with  thee  might  dread  to  dwell, 

And  in  thy  skull  discern  a  deeper  hell. 

Who  in  soft  guise,  surrounded  by  a  choir, 
Of  virgins  melting,  not  to  Vesta's  fire, 
With  sparkling  eyes,  ancf  cheek  by  passion  flush'd, 
Strikes  his  wild  lyre,  whilst  listening  dames  are  hush'd? 
'Tis  Little!  youn^  Catullus  of  his  day, 
As  sweet,  but  as  immoral,  in  his  lay! 
Grieved  to  condemn,  the  muse  must  still  be  just, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 
Pure  is  the  flame  which  o'er  her  altar  bums; 
From  grosser  incense  with  disgust  she  turns: 
Yet  kind  to  youth,  this  expiation  o'er, 
She  bids  thee  "mend  thy  line,  and  sin  no  more." 

For  thee,  translator  of  the  tinsel  song, 
To  whom  such  glittering  ornaments  belong, 
Hibernian  Strangford!  with  thine  eyes  of  blue,* 
And  boasted  locks  of  red  or  auburn  hue, 
Whose  plaintive  strain  each  love-sick  miss  admires, 
And  o'er  harmonious  fustian  half  expires, 
Learn,  if  thou  canst,  to  yield  an  author's  sense. 
Nor  vend  thy  sonnets  on  a  false  pretence. 
Think' st  thou  to  gain  thy  verse  a  higher  place, 
By  dressing  Camoens  in  a  suit  of  lace? 
Mend,  Strangford!  mend  thy  morals  and  thy  taste; 
Be  warm,  but  pure;  be  amorous,  but  be  chaste: 
Cease  to  deceive;  thy  pilfer'd  harp  restore. 
Nor  teach  the  Lusian  bard  to  copy  Moore. 

In  many  marble-cover' d  volumes  view 
Hayley,  in  vain  attempting  something  new: 
Whether  he  spin  his  comedies  in  rhyme, 
Or  scrawl,  as  Wood  and  Barclay  walk,  'gainst  time, 
His  style  in  youth  or  age  is  still  the  same. 
For  ever  feeble  and  for  ever  tame. 
Triumphant  first  see  **  Temper's  Triumphs  "  shine! 
At  least  I'm  sure  they  triumph'd  over  mine. 
Of  "  Music's  Triumphs,"  all  who  read  may  swear. 
That  luckless  music  never  triumph'd  there.t 

♦The  reader  who  may  wish  for  an  explanation  of  this,  mav  refer 
to  "  Strangford's  Camoens."  p.  127,  note  to  papre  66,  or  to  the  last 
page  of  the  Edinburgh  review  of  "  Strangfonl's  Camoens." 

It  is  also  to  be  remarked,  that  the  things  given  to  the  public  as 
Poems  of  Camoens,  are  no  more  to  be  found  iu  the  original  Portu- 
guese, tlian  in  the  Song  of  Solomon. 

t  Hayley's  two  most  notorious  verse  productions  are  "  Triumphs 
of  Temper,"  and  "Triumphs  of  Music.  He  has  also  written  much 
comedy  in  rhyme,  epistles,  &c.,  «S:c.  As  he  is  rather  an  elegant 
writer  of  notes  and  biography,  let  us  recommend  Pope's  advice  to 
Wycherley  to  Mr.  H.'s  consideration,  viz.,  "to  convert  his  poetry 
into  prose,"  which  may  easily  be  done  by  taking  away  the  final 
syllable  of  each  couplet. 


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AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  431 

Moravian^  rise!  bestow  some  meet  reward 
On  dull  devolion — Lol  the  Sabbath  bard, 
Sepulchral  Grahame,  pours  his  notes  sublime, 
In  mangled  prose,  nor  e'en  aspires  to  rhyme, 
Breaks  mto  blank  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke, 
And  boldly  pilfers  from  the  Pentateuch; 
And,  undisturb'd  by  conscientious  qualms, 
Perverts  the  Prophets  and  purloins  the  Psalms.* 

Hail,  Sympathy!  thy  soft  idea  brings 
A  thousand  visions  of  a  thousand  things. 
And  shows,  dissolved  in  thine  own  melting  tears. 
The  maudlin  prince  of  mournful  sonneteers. 
And  art  thou  not  their  prince,  harmonious  Bowles! 
Thou  first,  great  oracle  of  tender  soulsV 
Whether  in  sighing  winds  thou  seek'st  relief, 
Or  consolation  in  a  j^ellow  leaf; 
Whether  thy  muse  most  lamentably  tells 
What  merry  sounds  proceed  from  Oxford  bells,t 
Or,  still  in  bells  delighting,  find  a  friend 
In  every  chime  that  jingled  from  Ostend; 
Ah  I  how  much  juster  were  thy  muse's  hap, 
If  to  thy  bells  thou  wouldst  but  add  a  cap! 
Delightful  Bowlesl  still  blessing  and  still  blest, 
All  love  thy  strain,  but  children  like  it  best. 
'Tis  thine,  with  gentle  Little's  moral  song. 
To  soothe  the  mania  of  the  amorous  throng! 
With  thee  our  nursery  damsels  shed  their  tears. 
Ere  miss,  as  yet,  completes  her  infant  years; 
But  in  her  teens  thy  whining  powers  are  vain; 
She  quits  poor  Bowles  for  Little's  purer  strain. 
Now  to  soft  themes  thou  scomest  to  confine 
The  lofty  numbers  of  a  harp  like  thine; 
"Awake  a  louder  and  a  loftier  strain, "J 
Such  as  none  heard  before,  or  will  again; 
Where  all  discoveries  jumbled  from  the  flood, 
Since  first  the  leaky  ark  reposed  in  mud, 
By  more  or  less,  are  sung  in  every  book, 
From  Captain  Noah  down  to  Captain  Cook. 
Nor  this  alone;  but,  pausing  on  the  road, 
The  bard  sighs  forth  a  gentle  episode:  § 
And  gravely  tells — attend,  each  beauteous  miss! — 
When  first  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss. 

*  Mr.  Grahame  has  poured  forth  two  volumes  of  cant,  under  the 
name  of  "  Sabbath  Walks,"  and  "  Biblical  Pictures." 

t  See  Bowles's  Sonnets,  «S:c.—" Sonnet  to  Oxford,"  and  "Stanzas 
on  hearing  the  bells  of  Ostend." 

t  "Awake  a  louder,"  &c.  &c.,  is  the  first  line  in  Bowles's  "Spirit 
of  Discovery."  a  very  spirited  and  pretty  dwarf -epic.  Among  other 
exquisite  lines,  we  have  the  following:— 

"Akips 
Stole  on  the  listening  silence,  never  yet 
Here  heard,  they  trembled  even  as  if  the  power,"  &c. 
That  is,  the  woods  of  Madeira  trembled  to  a  kiss,  very  much  aston- 
ished, as  well  they  might  be,  at  such  a  phenomenon. 

§  The  episode  here  alluded  to  is  the  story  of  "  Robert  a  Machin," 
and  "Anna  d'Arfet,"  a  pair  of  constant  lovers,  who  performed  the 
kiss  before  mentioned,  that  startled  the  woods  of  Madeira. 


^H- 


^ 

4SQ  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Bowles!  in  thy  memory  let  this  precept  dwell, 

Stick  to  thy  sonnets,  man! — at  least  tney  sell. 

But  if  some  new-born  whim,  or  larger  bribe, 

Prompt  thy  crude  brain,  and  claim  thee  for  a  scribe; 

If  chance  some  bard,  though  once  by  dunces  fear'd, 

Now,  prone  in  dust,  can  only  be  revered; 

If  Pope,  whose  fame  and  genius,  from  the  first, 

Have  foil'd  the  best  of  critics,  needs  the  worst. 

Do  thou  essay;  each  fault,  each  failing  scan: 

The  first  of  poets  was,  alas!  but  man. 

Rake  from  each  ancient  dunghill  ev'ry  pearl, 

Consult  Lord  Fanny,  and  confide  in  Curll;* 

Let  all  the  scandals  of  a  former  age 

Perch  on  thy  pen,  and  flutter  o'er  thy  page; 

Aifect  a  candor  which  thou  canst  not  feel. 

Clothe  envy  in  the  garb  of  honest  zeal; 

Write,  as  if  St.  John's  soul  could  still  inspire, 

And  do  from  hate  what  Mallet  did  for  hire.f 

Oh!  hadst  thou  lived  in  that  congenial  time, 

To  rave  with  Dennis,  and  with  Ralph  to  rhyme ;t 

Thron^'d  with  the  rest  around  his  living  head, 

Not  rais'd  thy  hoof  against  the  lion  dead; 

A  meet  reward  had  crown'd  thy  glorious  ^ains, 

And  link'd  thee  to  the  Dunciad  for  thy  pain8.§ 

Another  epic!  who  inflicts  again 
More  books  of  blank  upon  the  sons  of  men? 
Boeotian  Cottle,  rich  Bristowa's  boast. 
Imports  old  stories  from  the  Cambrian  coast 
And  sends  his  goods  to  market — all  alive! 
Lines  forty  thousand,  cantos  twenty-five! 
Fresh  fish  from  Helicon!  who  '11  buy?  who  '11  buy? 
The  precious  bargain  's  cheap — in  faith,  not  I. 
Too  much  in  turtle  Bristol's  sons  delight, 
Too  much  o'er  bowls  of  rack  prolong  the  nightl 
If  Commerce  fills  the  purse,  she  clogs  the  brain, 
And  Amos  Cottle  strikes  the  lyre  in  vain. 
In  him  an  author's  luckless  lot  behold, 
Condemu'd  to  make  the  books  which  once  he  sold. 
O  Amos  Cottle! — Phoebus!  what  a  name, 
To  fill  the  speaking  trump  of  future  fame! — 
O  Amos  Cottle  1  for  a  moment  think 
What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  Ink! 
When  thus  devoted  to  poetic  dreams. 
Who  will  peruse  thy  prostituted  reams? 

*  Curll  is  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  "Dunciad."  and  was  a  book- 
seller. Lord  Fanny  is  the  poetical  name  of  Lord  Hervey,  author  of 
"Lines  to  the  Imitator  of  Horace." 

t  Lord  Bolingbroke  hired  Mallet  to  traduce  Pope  after  his  de- 
cease, because  the  poet  had  retained  some  copies  of  a  work  by  Lord 
Bolingbroke  (the  "  Patriot  King,")which  thatsplendid  but  malignant 
genius  had  ordered  to  be  destroyed. 

t  Dennis  th«  critic,  and  Ralph  the  rhymester: — 

"  Silence,  ye  wolves!  while  Ralph  to  Cyntliia  howls, 
Making  night  hideous;  answer  him,  ye  owls!" — Dunciad. 

5  See  Bowles's  late  edition  of  Pope's  works,  for  which  he  received 
£300;  thus  Mr.  B.  has  expeiienced  how  much  easier  it  is  to  profit  by 
the  reputation  of  another  than  to  elevate  his  own. 


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AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  433 

Oh,  pen  perverted!  paper  misapplied! 
Had  Cottle  still  adoni'd  the  couuter's  side,* 
Bent  o'er  the  desk,  or,  born  to  useful  toils, 
Been  taught  to  make  the  paper  which  he  soils, 
Plough'd,  delved,  or  plied  the  oar  with  lusty  limb. 
He  had  not  sung  of  Wales,  nor  I  of  him. 

As  Sisyphus  against  the  infernal  steep 
Rolls  the  huge  rock,  whose  motions  ne'er  may  sleep. 
So  up  thy  hill,  ambrosial  Richmond!  heaves 
Dull  Maurice  all  his  granite  weight  of  leaves :t 
Smooth,  solid  monuments  of  mental  pain! 
The  petrifactions  of  a  plodding  brain, 
That  ere  they  reach  the  top  fall  lumbering  back  again. 

With  broken  lyre,  and  cheek  serenely  pale, 
Lo!  sad  Aleasus  wanders  down  the  vale; 
Though  fair  they  rose,  and  might  have  bloom'd  at  last, 
His  hopes  have  perish'd  by  the  northern  blast: 
Nipp'd  in  the  bud  by  Caledonian  gales. 
His  blossoms  wither  as  the  blast  prevails! 
O'er  his  lost  works  let  classic  Sheffield  weep; 
May  no  rude  hand  disturb  their  early  sleep  ij 

Yet,  say!  why  should  the  bard  at  once  resign 
His  claim  to  favor  from  the  sacred  Isine? 
For  ever  startled  by  the  mingled  howl 
Of  northern  wolves,  that  still  in  darkness  prowl; 
A  coward  brood,  which  mangle  as  they  prey, 
By  hellish  instinct,  all  that  cross  their  way; 
Aged  or  young,  the  living  or  the  dead. 
No  mercy  find — these  harpies  must  be  fed. 
Why  do  the  injured  unresisting  yield 
The  calm  possession  of  their  native  field? 
Why  tamely  thus  before  their  fangs  retreat, 
«      Nor  hunt  the  bloodhounds  back  to  Arthur's  SeatV§ 

Health  to  immortal  Jeffrey!  once,  in  name, 
England  could  boast  a  judge  almost  the  same; 
In  soul  so  like,  so  merciful,  yet  just. 
Some  think  that  Satan  has  resign'd  his  trust. 
And  given  the  spirit  to  the  world  again. 
To  sentence  letters,  as  he  sentenced  men. 
With  hand  less  mighty,  but  with  heart  as  black. 
With  voice  as  willing  to  decree  the  rack; 

♦  Mr.  Cottle.  Amos,  Joseph,  I  don't  know  which,  but  one  or  both, 
once  sellers  of  books  they  did  not  write,  and  now  writers  of  books 
that  do  not  sell,  have  published  a  pair  of  epics.  "Alfred,"— (poor 
Alfred!  Pye  has  been  at  him  too !)—" Alfred "  and  the  "Fall  of 
Cambria. 

t  Mr.  Maurice  hath  manufactured  the  component  parts  of  a  pon- 
derous quarto,  upon  the  "Beauties  of  Richmond  Hill,"  and  the  like; 
— it  also  takes  in  a  charming  view  of  Turnham  Green,  Hammer- 
smith, Brpnlford.  Old  and  New,  and  the  parts  adjacent. 

t  Poor  Montgomery,  though  praised  by  every  English  Review,  has 
been  bitterly  reviled  hy  the  Edinburgh.  After  all,  the  bard  of  Shef- 
field is  a  man  of  considerable  genius;  his  "Wanderer  of  Switzer- 
land" is  worth  a  thousand  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  at  least  fifty 
"  degraded  epics. " 

§  Arthur's  Seat,  the  hill  which  overhangs  Edinburgh. 
S 


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4 


434  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Bred  in  the  courts  betimes,  though  all  that  law 
As  yet  hath  taught  him  is  to  find  a  flav7. 
Since  well  instructed  in  the  patriot  school 
To  rail  at  party,  though  a  party  tool, 
Who  knows,  if  chance  his  patrons  should  restore 
Back  to  the  sway  they  forfeited  before, 
His  scribbling  toils  some  recompense  may  meet, 
And  raise  this  Daniel  to  the  judgment-seat? 
Lot  Jeffries'  shade  indulge  the  pious  hope. 
And  greeting  thus,  present  him  with  a  rope: 
"  Heir  to  my  virtues!  man  of  equal  mind; 
Sldll'd  to  condemn  as  to  traduce  mankind, 
This  cord  receive,  for  thee  reserved  with  care, 
To  wield  in  judgment,  and  at  length  to  wear." 

Health  to  great  Jeffrey!  Heaven  preserve  his  life, 
To  flourish  on  the  fertile  shores  of  Fife, 
And  guard  it  sacred  in  its  future  wars. 
Since  authors  sometimes  seek  the  field  of  Mars! 
Can  none  remember  that  eventful  day. 
That  ever  glorious,  almost  fatal  fray, 
When  Little's  Icadless  pistol  met  his  eye, 
And  Bow  Street  mj-rmidons  stood  laughing  by?* 
Oh,  day  disastrous!  on  her  firm-set  rock, 
Dunedin's  castle  felt  a  secret  shock: 
Dark  roll'd  the  sympathetic  waves  of  Forth, 
Low  groan'd  the  startled  whirlwinds  of  the  north; 
Tweed  ruffled  half  his  Avaves  to  form  a  tear, 
The  other  half  pursued  its  calm  career;t 
Arthur's  steep  summit  nodded  to  its  base. 
The  surly  Tolbooth  scarcely  kept  her  place; 
The  Tolbooth  felt — for  marble  sometimes  can,   ) 
On  such  occasions,  feel  as  much  as  man — 
The  Tolbooth  felt  defrauded  of  his  charms, 
[f  Jeffrey  died,  except  within  her  arms:t  • 

/Nay,  last,  not  least,  on  that  portentous  morn, 
The  sixteenth  story  where  himself  was  bom. 
His  patrimonial  garret,  fell  to  ground, 
[And pale  Edina  shudder'd  at  the  sound: 
jlStrew'dwere  the  streets  aroiind  with  milk-white  reams, 
Flow'd  all  the  Canongate  with  inky  streams; 
This  of  his  candor  seem'd  the  sable  dew, 
That  of  his  valor  show'd  the  bloodless  hue; 

*  In  1800,  Messrs.  Jeffrey  and  Jlooro  met  at  Chalk  Farm.  The  duel 
was  pn  vi'iited  by  the  interference  cif  Iho  magistracy;  and,  on  ex- 
amination, the  balls  of  the  pistols,  lilce  tlie  coin-ap:e  (')f  the  combat- 
ants, were  found  to  have  evaporated.  This  incident  gave  occasion 
to  much  wufr^eiy  in  the  daily  prints. 

t  The  Tweecl  hero  beliavedwitli  proper  decorum;  it  would  have 
been  hi;,'lily  reprehensible  in  th«?  English  half  oi'  tlie  river  to  have 
shown  tho  smallest  symptom  of  apprehension. 

t  This  display  of  sympathy  on  the  part  of  llio  Tolbooth.  (the  prin- 
cipal prison  in  Edinburgh.)  which  truly  see->-s  to  liave  been  most  «f- 
feot«'a  on  this  occasion,  is  much  to  be  commended.  It  was  to  be 
apprehended  tliat  tlio  many  unhappy  criminals  executed  in  tho 
front  might  lmv(^  rendered  the  edifice  more  callous.  Slie  is  said  to 
be  of  the  softer  sex,  In'cause  lier  delicacy  of  fee'ing  on  this  day  was 
truly  feminine,  though,  like  most  feminine  iniimlses,  perhaps  a  little 
sellish. 


+ 


*ih 


■li-^ 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  435 

And  all  with  justice  deem'd  the  two  combined 

The  mingled  emblems  of  his  mighty  mind. 

But  Caledonia's  goddess  hover'd  o'er 

The  held,  and  saved  him  from  the  wrath  of  Moore; 

From  either  pistol  snatch'd  the  vengeful  lead, 

And  straight  restored  it  to  her  iavorite's  head; 

That  heal,  with  greater  than  magnetic  power, 

Caught  it,  as  Danae  caught  the  golden  shower, 

And,  though  the  thickening  dross  will  scarce  refine, 

Augments  its  ore,  and  is  itself  a  mine. 

"  My  son,"  she  cried,  *'  ne'er  thirst  for  gore  again, 

Resign  the  pistol,  and  resume  the  pen; 

O'er  politics  and  poesy  preside. 

Boast  of  thy  country,  and  Britannia's  guide! 

For  long  as  Albion's  heedless  sons  submit, 

Or  Scottish  taste  decides  on  English  v/it, 

So  long  shall  last  thine  unmolested  reign, 

Nor  any  dare  to  take  thy  name  in  vain. 

Behold,  a  chosen  band  shall  aid  thy  plan, 

And  own  thee  chieftain  of  the  critic  clan. 

First  in  the  ranks  Illustrious  shall  be  seen 

The  travell'd  thane,  Athenian  Aberdeen.* 

Herbert  shall  wield  Thor's  hammer,!  and  sometimes, 

In  gratitude,  thou'lt  praise  his  rugged  rhymes. 

Smug  Sydney  too  thy  bitter  page  shall  seek,! 

And  classic  Hallam,  much  renown'd  for  Greek;§ 

Scott  may  perchance  his  name  and  influence  lend, 

And  paltry  Pillans  shall  traduce  his  friend;  | 

While  gay  Thalia's  luckless  votary,  Lambe,11 

As  he  himself  was  damn'd,  shall  try  to  damn. 

*  His  lordship  has  been  much  abroad,  is  a  member  of  the  Athen- 
ian Society,  and  Reviewer  of  "Gell's  Topography  of  Troy." 

t  lh\  Herbert  is  a  translator  of  Icelandic  and  other  poetry.  One 
of  the  principal  pieces  is  a  "  Song  on  the  Recovery  of  Thorns  Haui- 
nier:"  the  translation  is  a  pleasant  chant  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and 
endeththus:— 

"  Instead  of  money  and  rings,  I  wot, 
The  hammer's  bruises  were  her  lot: 
Thus  Odin's  son  his  hammer  got." 

t  The  Reverend  Sydney  Smith,  the  reputed  author  of  "Peter  Plym- 
ley's  Letters,"  and  sundry  criticisms. 

§  Mr.  Hallam  reviewed  Payne  Knight's  "Taste,"  and  was  exceed- 
in  c^ly  severe  on  some  Greek  verses  therein:  it  was  not  discovered 
that  the  lines  were  Pindar's  till  the  press  rendered  it  impossible  to 
cancel  the  critique,  which  still  stands  an  everlasting  monmnent  to 
Ilallam's  ingenuity. 

The  said  Hallam  ic  incensed,  because  he  is  falsely  accused,  seeing 
that  he  never  dineth  at  Holland  Hvmse.  If  this  be  true,  I  am  sorry 
—not  for  having  said  so,  but  on  his  account,  as  I  understand  his 
lonlship's  feasts  are  preferable  to  his  compositions.  If  he  did  not 
review  Lord  Hollands  performance.  I  a-m  glad,  because  It  must 
have  been  painful  to  read,  and  irksome  to  praise  it.  If  Mr.  Hallani 
will  tell  me  who  did  review  it,  the  real  name  shall  find  a  place  in  the 
text;  provided,  nevertheless,  the  said  name  be  of  two  orthodox  mu- 
sical syllables,  and  will  come  into  the  verse;  till  then,  Hallam  must 
stand  for  want  of  a  better. 

II  Pillans  was  a  tutor  at  Eton,  and  subsequently  rector  of  the  High 
School,  and  a  professor  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh. 

H  The  Honorable  G.  Lambe  reviewed  "Beresford's  Miseries,"  and 
is  moreover  author  of  a  farce  enacted  with  much  applause  at  the 


Hh 


Hh 


4k 


436  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Known  be  thy  name,  unbounded  be  thy  sway! 
Thy  Holland's  banquets  shall  each  toil  repay; 
While  ffrateful  Britain  yields  the  praise  she  owes, 
To  Holland's  hirelings,  and  to  learning's  foes. 
Yet  mark  one  caution,  ere  thy  next  Review 
Spread  its  light  wings  of  saffron  and  of  blue, 
Beware  lest  blundering  Brougham  destroy  the  sale,* 
Turn  beef  to  bannocks,  cauliflowers  to  kail." 
Thus  having  said,  the  kilted  goddess  kist 
Her  son,  and  vanish 'd  in  a  Scottish  mist.t 

Illustrious  Holland  1  hard  would  be  his  lot, 
His  hirelings  mentioned,  and  himself  forgotl 
Holland,  with  Henry  Petty  at  his  back. 
The  whipper-in  and  huntsman  of  the  pack. 
Blest  be  the  banquets  spread  at  Holland  House, 
Where  Scotchmen  feed,  and  critics  may  carousel 
Long,  long  beneath  that  hospitable  roof 
Shall  Grub  Street  dine,  while  duns  are  kept  aloof. 
See  honest  Hallam  lay  aside  his  fork. 
Resume  his  pen,  review  his  lordship's  work, 
And,  grateful  to  the  founder  of  the  feast. 
Declare  his  landlord  can  translate  at  leastlf 
Dunedin!  view  thy  children  with  delight, 
They  write  for  food — and  feed  because  they  write: 
And  lest,  when  heated  with  the  unusual  grape, 
Some  glowing  thoughts  should  to  the  press  escape. 
And  tinge  with  red  the  female  reader's  cheek, 
My  lady  skims  the  cream  of  each  critique; 
Breathes  o'er  the  page  her  purity  of  soul, 
Reforms  each  error,  and  re  tines  the  whole.  § 

INow  to  the  Drama  turn — Oh  I  motley  sight, 
What  precious  scenes  the  wondering  eyes  invite! 

Priory,  Stanmore;  and  damned  with  great  expedition  at  the  lato 
theatre,  Covent  Garden.    It  was  entitled  "  Uliistle  for  It." 

*  Mr.  Brougham,  in  No.  XXV.  of  the  Edinbuigh  Review,  through- 
out the  article  concei'ningDon Pedro deCevallos,  hasdisplayed  more 
politics  tlian  policy;  many  of  the  worthy  burgesses  of  Edinburgh 
tieing  so  incensed  at  the  infamous  principles  it  evinces,  as  to  have 
withdrawn  their  subscriptions. 

It  seems  that  Mr.  Brougham  is  not  a  Pict,  as  I  stipposed,  but  a 
Borderer,  and  his  name  is  pronounced  Broom,  from  Trent  to  Tay  :— 
So  be  it. 

1 1  ought  to  apologize  to  the  worthy  deities  for  introducing  a  new 
goddess  with  short  petticoats  to  their  notice;  but,  ahis!  what  was  to 
be  done?  I  could  not  say  Caledonia's  genius,  it  being  well  known 
there  is  no  genius  to  be  found  from  Clackmannan  to  Caithness;  yet 
without  supernatural  agency,  how  was  Jeffrey  to  bo  saved?  The 
national  "kelpies,"  &c.,  are  too  unpoetical,  and  the  "brownies" 
and  "gude  neighbors"  (spirits  of  a  good  disposition)  refused  to  ex- 
tricate him.  A  goddess  tnerefoi-e  lias  been  called  for  the  purpose; 
and  great  ought  to  be  the  gratitude  of  Jeffrey,  seeing  it  is  the  only 
conununication  he  ever  held,  or  is  likely  to  hold,  with  anything 
heavenly. 

t  Lorcl  H.  has  translated  some  specimens  of  Lope  de  Vega,  insert- 
ed in  his  Life  of  theautlioi:  botharebepraised  by  hisdw/it<ej-«3«ted 
guests. 

§  Certain  it  is,  her  ladyship  is  suspected  of  having  displayed  her 
matchless  wit  in  the  "Edinburgh  Review."  however  that  may  be, 
wo  know  from  good  authority  that  the  nianuscripls  are  submitted 
t  J  her  perusal— no  doubt  for  correction. 


r 


-.^f 

AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  437 

Puns,  and  a  prince  within  a  barrel  pent,* 

And  Dibdin's  nonsense,  yield  complete  content. 

Though  now,  thank  heaven!  the  Kosciomania  's  o'er. 

And  full-grown  actors  are  endured  once  more; 

Yet  what  avail  their  vain  attempts  to  please, 

While  British  critics  suffer  scenes  like  these? 

While  Reynolds  vents  his  "  Dammes!"  "Poohs!"  and 

*'Zounds!"t 
And  commonplace  and  common  sense  confounds? 
While  Kenney's  "  World,"  just  suffer'd  to  proceed, 
Proclaims  the  audience  very  kind  indeed! 
And  Beaumont's  pilfer' d  Caratach  affords 
A  tragedy  complete  in  all  but  words?+ 
Who  but  must  mourn,  while  these  are  all  the  rage, 
The  degradation  of  our  vaunted  stage? 
Heavens!  is  all  sense  of  shame  and  talent  gone! 
Have  we  no  living  bard  of  merit? — none! 
Awake,  George  Colman!    Cumberland,  awake! 
Ring  the  alarum-bell!  let  folly  quake! 
O  Sheridan!  if  aught  can  move  thy  pen, 
Let  Comedy  resume  her  throne  again; 
Abjure  the  mummery  of  German  schools. 
Leave  new  Pizarros  to  translating  fools; 
Give,  as  thy  last  memorial  to  the  age. 
One  classic  drama,  and  reform  the  stage. 
Gods!  o'er  those  boards  shall  Folly  rear  her  head, 
Where  Garrick  trod,  and  Kemble  lives  to  tread? 
On  those  shall  Farce  display  Buffoon'ry's  mask, 
And  Hook  conceal  his  heroes  in  a  cask? 
Shall  sapient  managers  new  scenes  produce 
From  Cherry,  Skefiington,  and  Mother  Goose? 
While  Shakspeare,  Otway,  Massinger,  forgot. 
On  stalls  must  moulder,  or  in  closets  rot? 
Lo!  with  what  pomp  the  daily  prints  proclaim 
The  rival  candidates  for  Attic  fame! 
In  grim  array  though  Lewis'  spectres  rise,  , 
Still  Skefflngton  and  Goose  divide  the  prize. 
And  sure  great  Skefiington  must  claim  our  praise, 
For  skirtless  coats  and  skeletons  of  plays, 
Renown'd  alike;  whose  genius  ne'er  confines 
Her  flight  to  garnish  Greenwood's  gay  designs ;§ 
Nor  sleeps  with  "  Sleeping  Beauties,''  but  anon 
In  five  facetious  acts  comes  thundering  on,l| 
While  poor  John  Bull,  bewilder' d  with  the  scene, 
Stares,  wondering  what  the  devil  it  can  mean; 

*  In  the  melodrama  of  Tekeli,  that  heroic  prince  is  clapt  into  a 
barrel  on  the  stage;  a  new  asylum  for  di'^tressed  heroes. 

t  All  these  are  favorite  expressions  of  Mr.  R.,  and  prominent  in  his 
comedies,  living  and  defunct. 

X  JMr  T.  Sheridan,  the  new  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  strip- 
ped the  tragedy  of  "  Bonduca"  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhibited  tlie 
scenes  as  the  spectacle  of  Caractacus.  Was  this  worthy  of  his  sire? 
or  of  himself? 

§  Mr.  Greenwood  is,  we  believe,  scene-painter  to  Drury  Lane  Tlie- 
atre;  as  such,  Mr.  S.  is  much  indebted  to  Irini. 

llMr.  S.  is  the  illustrious  author  of  the  "Sleeping  Beauty;"  and 
some  comedies,  particularly  "Maids  and  Bachelors;"  Baccalaurii 
baculo  magisquam  laui'o  digni, 

-•^■fe ##- 


438  ENGLISH  BARDS 

But  as  some  hands  applaud — a  venal  few — 
Rather  than  sleep,  why  John  applauds  it  too. 

Such  are  we  now.     Ah!  wherefore  should  we  turn 
To  what  our  fathers  were,  unless  to  moumV 
Degenerate  Britons!  are  ye  dead  to  shame, 
Or,  kind  to  dulness,  do  you  fear  to  blame? 
Well  may  the  nobles  of  our  present  race 
Watch  each  distortion  of  a  Naldi's  face; 
Well  may  they  smile  on  Italy's  buffoons, 
And  worship  Catalani's  pantaloons,* 
Since  their  own  drama  yields  no  fairer  trace 
Of  wit  than  puns,  of  humor  than  grimace. 

Then  let  Ausonia,  skill'd  in  every  art 
To  soften  manners,  but  corrupt  the  heart, 
Pour  her  exotic  follies  o'er  the  town. 
To  sanction  Vice,  and  hunt  Decorum  down: 
Let  wedded  strumpets  languish  o'er  Deshayes, 
And  bless  the  promise  which  his  form  displays: 
While  Gayton  bounds  before  th'  enraptured  looks 
Of  hoary  marquises  and  stripling  dukes; 
Let  hi^h-born  lechers  eye  the  lively  Presle 
Twirl  her  li^^ht  limbs,  that  spurn  the  needless  veil; 
Let  Augiolini  bare  her  breast  of  snow, 
Wave  the  while  arm,  and  point  the  pliant  toe; 
Collini  trill  her  love-inspiring  song, 
Strain  her  fair  neck,  and  charm  the  listening  throng! 
Raise  not  your  scythe,  suppressors  of  our  vice! 
Reforming  saints!  too  delicately  nice! 
By  Avhose  decrees,  our  sinful  souls  to  save. 
No  Sunday  tankards  foam,  no  barbers  shave; 
And  beer  undrawn,  and  beards  unmown,  display 
Your  holy  reverence  for  the  Sabbath-day. 
Or,  hail  at  once  the  patron  and  the  pile 
Of  vice  and  folly,  Greville  and  Argyle!t 
Where  yon  proud  palace,  Fashion's  hallow'd  fane. 
Spreads  wide  her  portals  for  the  motley  train, 
Behold  the  new  Petronius  of  the  day,t 
The  arbiter  of  pleasure  and  of  play! 
*  NaHi  and  Catalanl  require  little  notice;  for  the  visape  of  the  one, 
and  t^9  salary  of  the  other,  will  enable  us  long  to  recollect  these 
amusing  vagabonds;  besides  we  are  still  black  and  blue  from  the 
squ*^eze  on  the  first  night  of  the  lady's  appearance  in  trousers. 

t  To  prevent  any  blunder,  such  as  mistaking  a  street  for  a  man.  I 
beg  leave  to  state  that  it  is  the  Institution,  and  not  the  Duke  of  that 
name,  which  is  here  alluded  to. 

A  gentleman,  with  whom  I  nm  slightly  acquainted,  lost  in  the 
Argyle  Rooms  severaJi  thousand  pounds  at  backgammon;  it  is  but 
justice  ti>  the  manager  in  this  instance  to  say,  that  Bon.e  degree  of 
disapprobation  was  manifested.  But  why  are  the  implements  of 
gaming  allo'ved  in  a  place  devoted  to  the  society  of  both  se.ves?  A 
pleasant  tning  fo''  the  wives  and  daughters  of  those  who  are  blessed 
or  cursed  with  s'ich  connections,  to  hear  the  billiard-tables  rattling 
in  one  room  and  the  dice  in  another!  That  this  is  the  case,  I  my- 
self can  testify,  as  a  late  unworthy  member  of  an  institution  which 
miterially  affects  the  morals  of  the  higher  orders,  while  the  lower 
may  not  even  move  to  the  sound  ot  a  tabor  and  fiddle  without  a 
chance  of  Indictment  for  riotous  behavior. 

J:  Petronius.  "Arbiter  elegantiarum  "  to  Nero.  "  and  a  very  pretty 
low  in  his  day,"  as  Mr.  Congreve's  "  Old  Bachelor  "  Baith. 


^^ 


-i- 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  439 

There  the  hired  eunuch,  the  Hesperian  choir, 

The  melting  lute,  the  soft  lascivious  lyre, 

The  song  from  Italj^,  the  step  from  France, 

The  midnight  orgy,  and  the  mazy  dance, 

The  smile  of  beauty,  and  the  flush  of  wine, 

For  fops,  fools,  gamesters,  knaves,  and  lords  combine. 

Each  to  his  humor — Comus  all  allows; 

Champagne,  dice,  music,  or  your  neighbor's  spouse. 

Talk  not  to  us,  ye  starving  sons  of  trade! 

Of  piteous  ruin,  which  ourselves  have  made; 

In  Plenty's  sunshine  Fortune's  minions  bask, 

Nor  think  of  poverty,  except  en  masque, 

When  for  the  nightsome  latel}^  titled  ass 

Appears  the  beggar  which  his  gi-andsire  was. 

The  curtain  dropp'd,  the  gay  burletta  o'er, 

The  audience  take  their  turn  upon  the  floor; 

Now  round  the  room  the  circling  dowagers  sweep, 

Now  in  loose  waltz  the  thin-clad  daughters  leap: 

The  first  in  lengthen'd  line  majestic  swim, 

The  last  display  the  free,  unfetter'd  limbl 

Those  for  Hibemia's  lusty  sons  repair 

With  art  the  charms  which  nature  could  not  spare; 

These  after  husbands  wing  then-  eager  flight. 

Nor  leave  much  mystery  for  the  nuptial  night. 

Oh!  blest  retreats  of  infamy  and  ease, 
Where,  all  forgotten  but  the  power  to  please, 
Each  maid  may  give  a  loose  to  genial  thought, 
Each  swain  may  teach  new  systems,  or  be  taught: 
There  the  blithe  youngster,  just  return'd  from  Spain, 
Cuts  the  light  pack,  or  calls  the  rattling  main: 
The  jovial  caster  's  set,  and  seven  's  the  nick. 
Or—done! — a  thousand  on  the  coming  trick! 
If,  mad  with  loss,  existence  'gins  to  tire. 
And  all  your  hope  or -wish  is  to  expire. 
Here  's  PowelFs  pistol  ready  for  your  life. 
And,  kinder  still,  a  Paget  for  your  wife: 
Fit  consummation  of  an  earthly  race. 
Begun  in  folly,  ended  in  disgrace, 
While  none  but  menials,  o'er  the  bed  of  death, 
Wash  thy  red  wounds,  or  watch  thy  wavering  breath; 
Traduced  by  liars,  and  forgot  by  all, 
The  mangled  victim  of  a  drunken  brawl, 
To  live  like  Clodius,  and  like  Falkland  fall.* 

Truth!  rouse  some  genuine  bard,  and  guide  his  hand, 
To  drive  this  pestilence  from  out  the  land. 

*  Mutate  nomine  de  te 
Fabula  narratur. 
I  knew  the  late  Lord  Falkland  well.  On  Sunday  niqrht  I  beheld 
him  presiding  at  his  own  table,  m  all  the  hon6,'St  pride  of  hospitality; 
on  Wednesday  morning:,  at  three  oV-lnek,  Isaw  stretchecl  before 
nje  all  that  remained  of  courage,  feeling,  and  a  host  of  passions, 
lie  was  a  gallant  and  successful  officer:  his  faults  were  tlie  faults 
<  f  a  sailor;  as  such,  Britons  will  forgive  them.  He  died  like  a  brave 
man  in  a  better  cause;  for  had  lie  fallen  in  liU-e  manner  on  the  deck 
of  the  frigate  to  which  he  was  jnst  appointed,  his  last  moments 
would  have  been  held  up  by  his  countrymen  as  an  example  to  suc- 
ceeding heroes. 


-Hi- 


r 


^ _ ^ 

440  ENGLISH  BARDS 

E'en  I~least  thinking  of  a  thoughtless  throng, 

Just  skill'd  to  know  the  right  and  choose  the  wrong, 

Freed  at  that  age  when  reason's  shield  is  lost. 

To  fight  my  course  through  passion's  countless  host, 

Whom  every  path  of  pleasure's  flowery  way 

Has  lured  in  turn,  and  all  have  led  astray — 

E'en  I  must  raise  my  voice,  e'en  I  must  feel 

Such  scenes,  such  men,  destroy  the  public  weal; 

Although  some  kind,  censorious  friend  will  say, 

"What  art  thou  better,  meddling  fool,  than  they?" 

And  every  brother  rake  will  smile  to  see 

That  miracle,  a  moralist  in  me. 

No  matter:  when  some  bard  in  virtue  strong — 

GilTord  perchance — shall  raise  the  chastening  song, 

Then  sleep  my  pen  for  ever!  and  my  voice 

Be  only  heard  to  hail  him,  and  rejoice; 

Rejoice,  and  yield  my  feeble  praise,  though  I 

May  feel  the  lash  that  Virtue  must  apply. 

As  for  the  smaller  fry,  who  swarm  in  shoals 
From  silly  Hafiz  up  to  simple  Bowles,* 
Why  should  we  call  them  from  their  dark  abode, 
In  dark  St.  Giles's  or  in  Tottenham  road? 
Or  (since  some  men  of  fashion  nobly  dare 
To  scrawl  in  verse)  from  Bond  Street  or  the  Square? 
If  things  of  ton  their  harmless  lays  indite. 
Most  wisely  doomed  to  shun  the  public  sight, 
What  harm?    In  spite  of  every  critic  elf, 
Sir  T.  may  read  his  stanzas  to  himself; 
Miles  Andrews  still  his  strength  in  couplets  try, 
And  live  in  prologues,  though  his  dramas  die. 
Lords  too  are  bards,  such  things  at  times  befall. 
And  'tis  some  praise  in  peers  to  write  at  all. 
Yet,  did  or  taste  or  reason  sway  the  times. 
Ah!  who  would  take  their  titles  with  their  rhymes? 
Roscommon!  Sheffield!  with  your  spirits  fled, 
No  future  laurels  deck  a  noble  head; 
No  muse  will  cheer  with  renovating  smile 
The  paralj^ic  puling  of  Carlisle: 
The  puny  s(;hoolboy  and  his  early  lay 
Men  pardon,  if  his  follies  pass  away: 
But  who  forgives  the  senior's  ceaseless  verse. 
Whose  hairs  grow  hoary  aa  his  rhymes  grow  worse? 
What  heterogeneous  honors  deck  the  peer! 
Lord,  rhymester,  petit-maitre,  pamphlet eer!t 
So  dull  in  youth,  so  drivelling  in  his  age. 
His  scenes  alone  had  damned  our  sinking  stage; 
But  managers  for  once  cried,  *'  Hold,  encur;h!" 
Nor  drugg'd  their  audience  with  the  tragic  stuIT. 

*  Wliat  would  be  the  sentiments  of  the  Persian  Anacreon,  Ilafiz, 
could  he  rise  from  his  splendid  sepulchre  at  Shceraz,  where  l.o  re- 
poses with  Ferdousi  and  Sadi,  the  oriental  Homer  and  Catullus, 
and  behold  liis  name  assumed  by  one  Stolt  of  Dromore,  tlio  most 
impudent  and  execrable  of  literary  poachers  for  the  daily  printsl 

tThe  Earl  of  Carlisle  has  lately  published  an  eishtecp-penny 
pamphlet  on  the  state  of  the  staee,  and  offers  his  plan  for  building 
a  new  theatre:  it  is  to  be  hoped  his  lordship  will  be  permitted  to 
bring  forward  anything  for  the  stage— except  hi.-;  own  tragedies. 


-^t 


r 


■ *^ 

AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  441 

Yet  at  their  judgment  let  his  Lordship  laugh. 
And  case  his  volumes  in  congenial  calf: 
Yes!  doH  that  covering,  where  morocco  shines, 
And  hang  a  calf-skin  on  those  recreant  lines,* 

With  you,  ye  Druids!  rich  in  native  lead, 
Who  daily  scribble  for  your  daily  bread, 
With  you  I  war  not:  Gilford's  heavy  hand 
Has  crush'd,  without  remorse,  your  numerous  band. 
On  *'  all  the  talents  "  vent  your  venal  spleen; 
Want  is  your  plea,  let  pity  be  your  screen. 
Let  monodies  on  Fox  regale  your  ci*ew. 
And  Melville's  Mantle  prove  a  blanket  too. 
One  common  Lethe  waits  each  hapless  bard, 
And,  peace  be  with  you  !  'tis  your  best  reward. 
Such  damning  fame  as  Dunciads  only  give. 
Could  bid  your  lines  beyond  a  morning  live; 
But  now  at  once  your  fleeting  labors  close. 
With  names  of  greater  note  in  blest  repose. 
Far  be't  from  me  unkindly  to  upbraid 
The  lovely  Rosa's  prose  in  masquerade, 
Whose  strains,  the  faithful  echoes  of  her  mind. 
Leave  wandering  comprehension  far  behind.  + 
Though  Bell  has  lost  his  nightingales  and  owls, 
Matilda  snivels  still,  and  llafiz  howls; 
And  Crusca's  spirit,  rising  from  the  dead. 
Revives  in  Laura,  Quiz,  and  X.Y.Z.J 

When  some  brisk  youth,  the  tenant  of  a  stall, 
Employs  a  pen  less  pointed  than  his  awl. 
Leaves  his  snug  shop,  forsakes  his  store  of  shoes, 
St.  Crispin  quits,  and  cobbles  for  the  muse, 
Heavens!  how  the  vul,i,^ar  stare!  how  crowds  applaud! 
How  ladies  read,  and  literati  laud! 
If  chance  some  wicked  wag  should  pass  his  jest, 
'Tis  sheer  ill-nature— don't  the  world  know  best  y 
Genius  must  guide  when  wits  admire  the  rhyme, 
And  Capel  LofCt  declares  'tis  quite  sublime.  § 
Hear,  then,  ye  hapless  sons  of  needless  trade! 
Swains!  quit  the  plough,  resign  the  useless  spade! 
Lo!   Bums  and  Bloomfield,  nay,  a  greater  far, 
Gilford  v/as  bom  beneath  an  adverse  star. 
Forsook  the  labors  of  a  servile  state, 
1  Stemm'd  the  rude  storm,  and  triumph'd  over  fate: 

*  "DoflE  that  lion's  hide, 
And  hang  a  calf-skin  ou  those  recreant  limbs." 

SnAicsPEAnE,  King  John, 
Lord  C.'s  works,  most  resplendently  bound,  form  a  conspicuous 
oniament  to  his  bookshelves:  "  The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  pm- 
nella." 

t  This  lively  little  Jessica,  the  daughter  of  the  noted  Jew  K , 

seems  to  be  a  follower  of  the  Delia  Cnisca  school,  and  has  published 
two  volumes  of  very  respectable  absurdities  in  rhyme,  as  times  go; 
besides  sundry  novels  in  the  style  of  the  first  edition  of  the  "MonU.'' 
X  These  are  the  si.':::natures  of  various  worthies  who  figure  in  tho 
poetical  departments  of  the  newspapers. 

§  Capel  LolTt,  Esq.,  the  Maecenas  of  shoemakers,  and  preface- 
Avriter-general  to  distressed  versemen;  a  kind  of  gratis  accoucheur 
to  those  who  wish  to  be  delivered  of  I'hyme,  but  do  not  know  how  to 
bring  forth. 
»* 

t f 


^ . jp» 

442  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Then  why  no  more?  if  Phcebus  smiled  on  3-011, 
Bloomlield!   why  not  on  brother  Nathan  too? 
Ilim  too  the  mania,  not  the  muse,  has  seized: 
Not  inspiration,  but  a  mind  diseased: 
And  now  no  boor  can  seek  his  last  abode, 
No  common  be  enclosed,  without  an  ode.* 
Ohl  since  increased  refinement  deigns  to  smile 
On  Britain's  sons,  and  bless  our  genial  isle, 
Let  Poesy  go  forth,  pervade  the  whole, 
Alilce  the  rustic,  and  mechanic  soul. 
Ye  tuneful  cobblers!   still  your  notes  prolong, 
Compose  at  once  a  slipper  and  a  song; 
So  shall  the  fair  your  handiwork  peruse, 
Your  sonnets  sure  shall  please — perhaps  your  shoes. 
-     May  moorland  weavers  boast  Pindaric  f-kiil,t 
And  tailors'  lays  be  longer  than  their  bill! 
While  punctual  beaxix  reward  the  grateful  notes. 
And  jjay  for  poems — when  they  pay  for  coals. 

To  the  famed  throng  now  paid  the  tribute  due, 
Neglected  genius!  let  me  turn  to  you. 
Come  forth,  O  Campbell!  give  thy  talents  ecope; 
Who  dares  aspire  if  thou  must  cease  to  hope? 
And  thou,  melodious  Rogers!  rise  at  last, J 
Recall  the  pleasing  memory  of  the  past; 
Arise!  let  blest  remembrance  still  inspire, 
And  strike  to  wonted  tones  thy  hallow 'd  IjTe; 
Restore  Apollo  to  his  vacant  throne. 
Assert  thy  country's  honor  and  thine  own. 
What!  must  deserted  Poesy  still  weep 
Where  her  last  hopes  with  pious  Cowper  sleep? 
Unless,  perchance,  from  his  cold  bier  she  turns 
To  deck  the  turf  that  wraps  her  minstrel,  BurucI 
No!  though  contempt  hath  mark'd  the  spurious  brood, 
The  race  who  rhyme  from  folly,  or  for  food, 
Yet  still  some  genuine  sons  'tis  hers  to  boast, 
Who,  least  affecting,  still  affect  the  most: 
Feel  as  they  write,  and  write  but  as  they  feel — 
Bear  witness  Gifford,  Sotheby,  Macneil.§ 

"Why  slumbers  Gifford?"  once  was  ask'd  in  vain!  | 
Why  slumbers  Gifford?  let  us  ask  again. 

*  See  Nathaniel  Bloomfield''s  ode,  elegy,  or  whatever  he  or  any  one 
else  chooses  to  call  it,  on  the  enclosure  of  "Iloningrton  (Jreo:i." 

t  Vide  "  Recollections  of  a  Weaver  in  the  Moorlands  of  Stafford- 
shire." 

I  It  would  be  superfluous  to  recall  to  the  mind  rf  the  reader  the 
authors  of  "Tlie  Pleasures  of  Memory"  and  "The  rit'asures  cf 
Hope,"  the  most  beautiful  didactic  poems  in  our  language,  if  we  ex- 
cept Pope's  "  Essay  on  Man;"  but  so  many  poetasters  have  started 
up,  that  even  the  names  cf  Campbell  and  Rogers  become  strange. 

§  Gifl!ord,  author  of  the  *'Baviad"  and  "Mseviad,"  the  first  satires 
of  llie  day,  and  translator  of  Juvenal. 

Sotheby,  translator  of  AVieland's  "Oberon,"  and  Virgil's  "Geor- 
gics,"  and  author  of  "Saul,"  an  epic  poem. 

Jlacneil,  whose  poems  ai"e  djiservecUy  popular,  particularly  "  Sirot- 
land's  Scaith;  or.  The  Waes  of  War,"  of  which  ten  thousand  copies 
were  sold  in  one  month. 

II  ?ilr.  Gifford  ))romised  publicly  that  the  "liaviad"  and  "Mtevlad" 
should  not  be  his  last  original  works.  Let  him  remember  "  Mox  in 
rcluctantes  dracones." 


it 


■It- 


A 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  443 

Are  there  no  follies  for  his  pen  to  purge? 
Are  there  uo  fools  whose  backs  demand  the  scourge? 
i  Are  there  no  sins  for  satire's  bard  to  greet? 

Stalks  not  gigantic  Vice  in  every  street? 
Shall  peers  or  princes  tread  pollution's  path? 
And  'pcape  alike  the  law's  and  muse's  wrath? 
Nor  blaze  with  guilty  glare  thi'ough  future  time, 
Eternal  beacons  of  consummate  crime? 
Arouse  thee,  Gilford!  be  thy  promise  claim'd, 
Make  bad  men  better,  or  at  least  ashamed. 

Unhappy  White!  while  life  was  in  its  spring,* 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  fame;  and  all  thy  promise  iiur 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh!  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science's  self  destroy 'd  her  fa\orite  son  I 
Yes,  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit. 
She  sovv'd  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reap'd  the  fruit, 
'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low: 
So  the  struck  eagle,  strctch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart; 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel, 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  steel; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 
,  Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 

There  be,  who  say,  in  these  cnlighten'd  days, 
That  splendid  lies  are  all  the  poet's  yaaise; 
That  strain'd  invention,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Alone  impels  the  modern  bard  to  sing: 
'Tis  true,  that  all  who  rhyme — nay,  all  who  write, 
Shrink  from  that  fatal  word  to  genius — trite; 
Yet  Truth  will  sometimes  lend  her  noblest  fires, 
And  decorate  the  verse  herself  inspires; 
This  fact  in  Virtue's  name  let  Crabbe  attest; 
Though  nature's  sternest  painter,  yet  the  best. 

And  here  let  Shee  and  genius  find  a  place,t 
Whose  pen  and  pencil  yield  an  equal  grace: 
To  guide  whose  hands  the  sister  arts  combine. 
And  trace  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  line; 
Whose  magic  touch  can  bid  the  canvas  glow, 
Or  pour  the  easy  rhyme's  liarmonious  flow; 
While  honors,  doubly  merited,  attend 
The  poet's  rival,  but  the  painter's  friend. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  dares  approach  the  bower 
Where  dwelt  the  muses  at  their  natal  hour; 

*HRnry  Kirke  "White  died  at  Cambrirlgre  in  October.  180(5,  in  con- 
sequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that  would 
have  matured  a  mind  wiich  disease  and  poveity  coukl  n<  t  impair 
and  which  den th  itself  destroyed  rather  than  subdued.  His  poems 
abound  in  snch  beauties  as  nuist  impress  t lie  read*  r  with  the  live- 
liest reerret  that  so  shortaperi(Hl  was  allotted  to  talents  \v]  ich  would 
have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to  assume. 

t  Mr.  Shee,  author  of  "Ehymes  on  Art,"  and  "Elements  of  Art.'' 


■at- 


444  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Whose  steps  have  press'd,  whose  eye  has  mark'd  afar, 
The  clime  that  nursed  the  sons  of  song  and  war, 
The  scenes  which  glory  still  must  hover  o'er, 
Her  place  of  birth,  her  own  Achaian  shore. 
But  doubly  blest  is  he  whose  heart  expands 
With  hallow'd  feelings  for  those  classic  lands: 
Who  rends  the  veil  of  ages  long  gone  by. 
And  views  their  remnants  with  a  poet's  eye! 
Wright!  'twas  thy  happy  lot  at  once  to  view* 
Those  shores  of  glory,  and  to  sing  them  too, 
And  sure  no  :ommon  muse  inspired  thy  pen 
To  hail  the  land  of  gods  and  godlike  men. 

And  you,  associate  bards  1  who  snatch'd  to  lightt 
Those  gems  too  long  withheld  from  modem  signt; 
Whose  mingling  taste  combined  to  cull  the  wreath 
Where  Attic  Howers  Aonian  odors  breathe, 
And  all  their  renovated  fragrance  flung, 
To  grace  the  beauties  of  your  native  tongue; 
Now  let  those  minds,  that  nobly  could  transfuse 
The  glorious  spirit  of  the  Grecian  muse, 
Though  soft  the  echo,  scorn  a  borrow'd  tone: 
Resign  Achaia's  lyre,  and  strike  your  own. 

Let  these,  or  such  as  these,  "with  just  applause 
Restore  the  muse's  violated  laws; 
But  not  in  flimsy  Darwin's  pompous  chime. 
That  mighty  master  of  unmeaning  rhyme: 
Whose  gilded  cymbals,  more  adom'd  than  clear, 
The  eye  delighted,  but  fatigued  the  ear; 
In  show  the  simple  lyre  could  once  surpass. 
But  now,  worn  down,  appear  in  native  brass; 
While  all  his  train  of  hovering  sylphs  around 
Evaporate  in  similes  and  sound: 
Him  let  them  shun,  with  him  let  tinsel  die: 
False  glare  attracts,  but  more  offends  the  eye.t 

Yet  let  them  not  to  vulgar  Wordsworth  stoop, 
The  meanest  object  of  the  lowly  group. 
Whose  verse,  of  all  but  childish  prattle  void. 
Seems  blessed  harmony  to  Lamb  and  Lloyd-  § 
Let  them — But  hold,  my  muse,  nor  dare  to  teach 
A  strain  far,  far  beyond  thy  humble  reach: 
The  native  genius  with  their  being  given 
Will  point  the  path,  and  peal  their  notes  to  heaven. 

And  thou,  too,  Scott!  resign  to  minstrels  rude  | 
The  wilder  slogan  of  a  border  feud; 

*  Mr.  Wright,  late  Consul-General  for  the  .Seven  Islands,  is  author 
of  a  very  beautiful  p(iein  iiist  published.  It  is  entitled  "  Hoi*ffl 
loniero,"  and  is  descriptive  of  tlie  isles  and  adjacent  coast  of  Greece. 

t  The  translators  of  the  "Antholojjy  "  have  since  published  sep- 
arate poems,  which  evince  genius  that  only  requires  opportunity  to 
attain  eminence. 

t  The  negh'ct  of  the  "Botanic  Garden  "  is  some  proof  of  return- 
inj?  taste.    The  scenery  is  its  sole  recommendation, 

§  Messi-s.  Lamb  and  Lloyd,  the  most  ignoble  followers  of  Southey 
and  Co. 

II  By  the  by,  I  hope  that  in  Mr.  Scott's  next  poem,  his  hero  or  hero- 
ine will  bo  less  addicted  to  "  Gramarye,"  and  moretoKrannnar,  than 
the  Lady  of  the  Lay,  and  her  bravo,  William  of  Deloraine. 

*A »♦ 


Ht 


AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  445 

Let  others  spin  their  meagre  lines  for  hire; 

Enough  for  genius,  if  itself  inspire  I 

Let  Southey  sing,  although  his  teeming  muse, 

Prolitic  every  spring,  be  too  profuse; 

Let  simple  Wordsworth  chime  his  childish  verse, 

And  brother  Coleridge  lull  the  babe  at  nurse; 

Let  spectre-mongering  Lewis  aim,  at  most. 

To  rouse  the  galleries,  or  to  raise  a  ghost; 

Let  Moore  be  lewd:  let  Strangford  steal  from  Moore, 

And  swear  that  Camoens  sang  such  notes  of  yore; 

Let  Hayley  hobble  on,  Montgomery  rave. 

And  godly  Grahame  chant  a  stupid  stave; 

Let  sonneteering  Bowles  his  strains  refine, 

And  whine  and  whimper  to  the  fourteenth  line; 

Let  Stott,  Carlisle,*  Matilda,  and  the  rest 

Of  Grub  Street,  and  of  Grosvenor  Place  the  best, 

Scrawl  on,  till  death  release  us  from  the  strain, 

Or  Common  Sense  assert  her  rights  again. 

But  thou,  with  powers  that  mock  the  aid  of  praise, 

Shouldst  leave  to  humbler  bards  ignoble  lays; 

Thy  country's  voice,  the  voice  of  all  the  Nine, 

Demand  a  hallow'd  harp — that  harp  is  thine, 

Say!  v»'ill  not  Caledonia's  annals  yield 

The  glorious  record  of  some  nobler  field. 

Than  the  wild  foray  of  a  plundering  clan, 

Whose  proudest  deeds  disgrace  the  name  of  man? 

Or  Marmion's  acts  of  darkness,  fitter  food 

For  outlaw'd  Sherwood's  tales  of  Robin  Hood? 

Scotland!  still  proudly  claim  thy  native  bard, 

And  be  thy  praise  his  first,  his  best  reward! 

Yet  not  with  thee  alone  his  name  should  live, 

But  own  the  vast  renown  a  world  can  give; 

*  It  may  be  asked  v/hy  I  have  censured  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  my 
guardian  and  relative,  to  wiiom  I  dedicated  a  volume  of  puerile  po- 
ems a  few  years  ago.  The  guai-diansliip  was  nominal,  at  least  so 
far  aa  I  have  been  able  to  discover;  the  relationship  I  cannot  help, 
and  am  very  sorry  for  it;  but  as  his  lordship  seemed  to  forget  ifc  on 
a  very  essential  occasion  to  me,  I  shall  not  burden  my  memoiy  Avith 
the  recollection.  I  do  not  think  that  pereorfal  differences  sanction 
the  unjust  condemnatiou  of  a  brother  scribbler;  but  I  see  no  reason 
why  they  should  act  as  a  preventive,  when  the  author,  noble  or  ig- 
noble, has  for  a  series  of  years  beguiled  a  "  discerning  public  "  (as 
the  advertisements  have  It)  with  divers  reams  of  most  ortliodox, 
imperial  nonsense.  Besides,  I  do  not  step  aside  to  vituperate  the 
Earl;  no— his  works  come  fairly  in  i-eview  with  those  of  other  patii- 
cian  literati.  If,  before  I  escaped  my  teens,  I  said  anything  in  fa- 
vor of  his  lordship's  paper  books,  it  was  in  the  way  of  dutif  id  dedi- 
cation, and  more  from  the  advice  of  others  than  my  own  judgment, 
and  I  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  pronouncing  my  sincere  recanta- 
tion. I  have  heard  that  some  persons  conceive  me  to  be  under  obli- 
gations to  Lord  Carlisle;  if  so,  I  shall  be  most  particularly  happy  to 
learn  what  they  are,  and  when  conferred,  that  tfiey  may  bo  duly 
appreciated  and  publicly  acknowledged.  What  I  have  humV)ly  ad- 
vanced as  an  ophiion  on  his  printed  things,  I  am  prepared  to  sup- 
port, if  necessary,  by  quotations  from  eleij:ies,  eulogies,  odes,  epi- 
sodes, and  certain  facetious  and  dainty  tragedies  bearing  his  uama 
and  mark;— 

"What  can  ennoble  knaves,  or  fools,  or  cowards? 
Alas!  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards  1" 
So  says  Pope.    Amen. 

-^ ih- 


^ m^ 

^  ENGLISH  BARDS 

Be  known,  perchance,  when  Albion  is  no  more, 
And  tell  the  tale  of  what  she  was  before; 
To  future  times  her  faded  fame  recall, 
And  save  her  glory,  though  his  country  fall. 

Yet  what  avails  the  sanguine  poet's  hope, 
To  conquer  ages,  and  with  time  to  cope? 
New  eras  spread  their  wings,  new  nations  rise, 
'    And  other  victors  fill  the  applauding  skies;* 
A  few  brief  generations  fleet  along, 
Whose  sons  forget  the  poet  and  his  song: 
E'en  now,  whatonee-loved  minstrels  scarce  may  claim, 
The  transient  mention  of  a  dubious  name! 
When  fame's  loud  trump  hath  blown  its  noblest  blast. 
Though  long  the  sound,  the  echo  sleeps  at  last; 
And  glory,  like  the  phoenix  'midst  her  lire?. 
Exhales  her  odors,  blazes,  and  exijircs. 

Shall  hoary  Granta  call  her  sable  sons. 
Expert  in  science,  more  expert,  at  puusy 
Shall  these  approach  the  muse?    Ah,  no  I  she  flies, 
And  even  spurns  the  great  Seatonian  prize; 
Though  printers  condescend  the  press  to  soil 
With  rhyme  by  Hoare,  and  epic  blank  by  Iloyle: 
Not  him  whose  page,  if  still  upheld  by  whist, 
Requires  no  sacred  theme  to  bid  us  list.f 
Ye!  who  in  Granta's  honors  would  surpass. 
Must  mount  her  Pegasus,  a  full-grown  ass; 
A  foal  well  worthy  of  her  ancient  dam. 
Whose  Helicon  is  duller  than  her  Cam. 

There  Clarke,  still  striving  piteously  "  to  please," 
Forgetting  dojj?grel  leads  not  to  degrees, 
A  would-be  satirist,  a  hired  buffoon, 
A  monthly  scribbler  of  some  low  lampoon, 
Condemn'd  to  drudge,  the  meanest  of  the  mean. 
And  furbish  falsehoods  for  a  magazine. 
Devotes  to  scandal  his  congenial  mind, 
Himself  a  living  libel  on  mankind.^ 

Oh!  dark  asylum  of  a  Vandal  racc!§ 
At  once  the  boast  of  learning  and  disgrace; 
So  sunk  in  duluess,  and  so  lost  to  shame, 

*  "ToUere  humo,  vietorque  virum  volitare  per  era."— Vmaii,. 

t  The  "Games  of  Hoylo,"  well  known  to  tlie  votaries  <.f  whist, 
chess,  &c.,  are  not  to  bo  superseded  by  the  vagaries  of  liis  )-»Of  tic.il 
namesake,  whose  poem  coinpi-ised,  as  expressly  stated  in  tlie  adver- 
tisement, all  the  "  plagues  of  Egypt." 

X  This  person,  who  has  lately  O'trayed  the  most  rabid  R3-mptoms 
of  confinnod  authorsliip,  is  writer  of  n  poem  denoniinatetrtlie  •"Art- 
of  I'lcasing,"  as  ''hieus  a  nonlncendo,'^  containing  littin  pleasantly 
and  less  poetrv.  Ke  also  acts  as  monthly  stifiendiary  an<l  collector 
of  calumnies  ^^r  tlie  "Satirist."  If  this  unfortunate  young  man 
would  exchange  the  magazines  for  the  mathematics,  and  endeavor 
to  take  a  decent  degree  in  his  university,  it  might  eveutuahy  prove 
more  serviceable  than  his  present  salary. 

8  "  Into  Cambridgeshire  the  Emperor  Probns  transported  a  con- 
siuerable  body  of  Vandals."— 6' /boon's  Decline  and  i'Vi//,  page  83, 
vol.  ii.  There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  tho  truth  of  this  assertion;  the 
breed  is  still  in  high  perfection. 

^ A* 


»^ 

AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  447 

That  Smythe  and  Hodgson  scarce  redeem  thy  fame!* 

But  where  fair  Isis  rolls  her  purer  wave, 

The  partial  muse  delighted  loves  to  lave; 

On  her  green  banks  a  greener  wreath  is  wove, 

To  crown  the  bards  that  haunt  her  classic  grove; 

Where  Richards  wakes  a  genuine  poet's  fires, 

And  modern  Britons  justly  praise  their  su-es.t 

For  me,  who,  thus  unask'd,  have  dared  to  tell 
My  country,  what  her  sons  should  know  too  we-1, 
Zeal  for  her  honor  bade  me  here  engage 
The  host  of  idiots  that  infest  her  age; 
No  just  applause  her  honor'd  name  shall  lose, 
As  first  in  freedom,  dearest  to  the  muse. 
Oh!  would  thy  bards  but  emulate  thy  fame, 
And  rise  more  worthy,  Albion,  of  thy  name ! 
What  Athens  was  in  science,  Rome  in  power, 
What  Tyre  appear' d  in  her  meridian  hour, 
'Tis  thine  at  once,  fair  Albion!  to  have  been — 
Earth's  chief  dictatress,  ocean's  mighty  queen: 
But  Rome  decay'd,  and  Athens  strew'd  the  plain. 
And  Tyre's  proud  piers  lie  shatter'd  in  the  main: 
Like  these,  thy  strength  may  sink,  in  ruin  hm-l'd. 
And  Britain  fall,  the  bulwark  of  the  world. 
But  let  me  cease,  and  dread  Cassandra's  fate, 
With  warning  ever  scoff 'd  at,  till  too  late; 
To  themes  less  lofty  still  my  lay  confine, 
And  urge  thy  bards  to  gain  a  name  like  thine. 

Then,  hapless  Britain!  be  thy  rulers  blest, 
The  senate's  oracles,  thy  people's  jest. 
Still  hear  thy  motley  orators  dispense 
The  flowers  of  rhetoric,  though  not  of  sense, 
While  Canning's  colleagues  hate  him  for  his  wit, 
And  old  dame  Portland  fills  the  place  of  Pitt.:): 

Yet  once  again,  adieu!  ere  this  the  sail 
That  wafts  me  hence  is  shivering  in  the  gale; 
And  Afric's  coast  and  Calpe's  adverse  height,§ 
And  Stamboul's  minarets  must  greet  my  sight:! 
Thence  shall  I  stray  through  beauty's  native  clime,1I 
Where  Kaff  is  clad  in  rocks,  and  crown'd  with  snows  sub- 
lime,** 
But  should  I  back  return,  no  letter'd  rage 
Shall  drag  my  commonplace  book  on  the  stage. 
Let  vain  Valentia  rival  luckless  Carr,tt 

*  Mr.  Hodgson's  name  requires  no  praise;  the  man  who  in  trans- 
lation displays  unquestionable  genius  may  well  be  expected  to  ex- 
cel in  original  composition,  of  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  shall  soon 
Bee  a  splendid  specimen. 

+  The  "Aboriginal  Britons,"  an  excellent  poem  by  Richards. 

i  A  friend  of  mine  being  asked  why  his  Grace  of  P.  was  likened  • 
to  an  old  woman,  replied,  "he  supposed  it  was  because  he  was  past 
bearing." 

I  Calpe  is  the  ancient  name  of  Gibraltar. 

if  Stamboul  is  the  Turkish  word  for  Constantinople. 

1  Georgia,  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  Its  inhabitants. 

**  Mt.  Caucasus. 

tt  Lord  Valentia,  (whose  tremendous  travels  are  forthcoming, with 
due  decorations,  graphical,  topographical,  and  typographical,)  de- 

■* it* 


4K 


448  ENGLISH  BARDS 

And  equal  him  whose  work  he  sought  to  mar;  , 

Let  Aberdeen  and  Elgin  still  pursue* 

The  shade  of  fame  through  regions  of  virtCi; 

Waste  useless  thousands  on  their  Phidian  freaks 

Misshapen  monuments  and  maira'd  antiques: 

And  make  their  grand  saloons  a  general  mari 

For  all  the  mutilated  blocks  of  art. 

Of  Dardan  tours  let  dilettanti  tell, 

I  leave  topography  to  classic  Gell;t 

And,  quite  content,  no  more  shall  interpose 

To  stun  mankind  with  poesy  or  prose. 

Thus  far  I've  held  my  undisturb'd  career. 
Prepared  for  rancor,  steel 'd  'gainst  selfish  lear; 
This  thing  of  rhyme  I  ne'er  disdain'd  to  own — 
Though  not  obtrusive,  yet  not  quite  unknown, 
My  voice  was  heard  again  though  not  so  loud, 
My  page,  though  nameless,  never  disavow'd; 
And  now  at  once  I  tear  the  veil  away: — 
Cheer  on  the  pack — the  quarry  stands  at  bay, 
Unscared  by  all  the  din  of  Melbourne  House, 
By  Lambe's  resentment,  or  by  Holland's  spouse 
By  Jeffrey's  harmless  pistol,  Hallam's  rage, 
Edina's  brawny  sons  and  brimstone  page. 
Our  men  in  buckram  shall  have  blows  enough, 
And  feel  they  too  "  are  penetrable  stuff:" 
And  though  I  hope  not  hence  unscathed  to  go, 
Who  conquers  me  shall  find  a  stubborn  foe. 
The  time  hath  been,  when  no  harsh  sound  would  fall 
From  lips  that  now  may  seem  imbued  with  gall; 
Nor  fools  nor  follies  tempt  me  to  despise 
The  meanest  thing  that  crawl'd  beneath  my  eyes; 
But  now,  so  callous  grown,  so  changed  since  youth, 
I've  leam'd  to  think,  and  sternly  speak  the  truth; 
Leam'd  to  deride  the  critic's  starch  decree. 
And  break  him  on  the  wheel  he  meant  for  me; 
To  spurn  tlie  rod  a  scribbler  bids  me  kiss, 
Nor  care  if  courts  or  crowds  applaud  or  hiss: 
Nay  more,  though  all  my  rival  rhymesters  frown, 
I  too  can  hunt  a  poetaster  down; 
And,  arm'd  in  proof,  the  gauntlet  cast  at  once 
To  Scotch  marauder,  and  to  southern  dunce. 
Thus  much  I've  dared  to  do,  how  far  my  lay 
Hath  wrong'd  these  righteous  times,  let  others  say: 
This,  let  the  world,  which  knows  not  how  to  spare, 
Yet  rarely  blames  unjustly,  now  declare. 

posed,  on  Sir  John  Carr's  unlucky  suit,  that  Dubois's  satire  preven- 
ted his  purchase  of  tli«  "Stranger in  Ireland."— Oh.  fie,  my  Lord!  has 
your  lordship  no  more  feeling  for  a  fellow-tourist?  "But  two  of  a 
trade,"  they  say,  «S:c. 

*  Lord  Elg:in  would  fain  persuade  us  that  all  the  fljrures,  with  and 
without  noses,  in  his  stone-shop,  are  the  work  of  Phidias;  "Credat 
Judceus!" 

t  Mr.  Gell's  "Topography  of  Troy  and  Ithaca"  cannot  fail  to 
insure  the  approbation  of  every  man  pos.sessed  of  classical  taste,  as 
well  for  the  information  Mr.  G.  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  as 
for  the  ability  and  research  the  respective  works  display. 


-Ht 


^ — ^ 

AND  SCOTCH  REVIEWERS.  449 


POSTSCRIPT. 

I  HAVE  been  informed,  since  the  present  edition  went  to  the  press, 
that  my  trusty  and  well-beloved  cousins,  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers, 
are  preparing  a  most  vehement  critique  on  my  poor,  gentle,  unre- 
sisting Muse,  whom  they  have  already  so  bedevilled  with  their 
ungodly  ribaldry: 

"  Tantsene  animis  ccelestibus  irae." 

I  suppose  I  must  say  of  Jeffrey  as  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  saith, 
"An  I  had  known  he  was  so  cunning  of  fence,  I  had  seen  him 
d d  ere  I  had  fought  him."  What  a  pity  it  is  that  1  shall  be  be- 
yond the  Bosphorus  before  the  next  number  has  passed  the  Tweed. 
But  I  liope  yet  to  light  my  pipe  with  it  in  Persia. 

My  Northern  friends  have  accused  me,  with  justice,  of  personality 
towards  their  great  literary  anthropophagus,  Jeffrey ;  but  what  else 
was  to  be  done  with  him  and  his  dirty  pack,  who  feed  by  "lying 
and  slandering,"  and  slake  their  thirst  by  "evil  speaking?"  I  have 
adduced  facts  already  well  known,  and  of  Jeffrey's  mind  I  have 
stated  my  free  opinion,  nor  has  he  thence  sustained  any  injury;— 
what  scavenger  was  ever  soiled  by  being  pelted  with  mud?  It  may 
be  said  that  I  quit  England  because  I  have  censured  there  "persons 
of  honor  and  wit  about  town;"  but  I  am  coming  back  again,  and 
their  vengeance  will  keep  hot  till  my  return.  Those  who  know  me 
can  testify  that  my  motives  for  leaving  England  are  very  different 
from  fears,  literary  or  personal ;  those  who  do  not,  may  one  day  be 
convinced.  Since  the  publication  of  this  thing,  my  name  has  not 
been  concealed ;  I  have  been  mostly  in  London,  ready  to  answer 
for  my  transgressions,  and  in  daily  expectation  of  sundry  cartels; 
but,  alas!  "the  age  of  chivalry  is  over,"  or,  in  the  vulgar  tongue, 
there  is  no  spirit  nowadays. 

There  is  a  youth  yclept  Hewson  Clark  (Subaudi  Esquire),  a  Sizer 
of  Emanuel  College,  and  I  believe  a  denizen  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
whom  I  have  introduced  in  these  pages  to  much  better  company 
than  he  has  been  accustomed  to  meet;  he  is,  notwithstanding,  a 
very  sad  dog,  and  for  no  reason  that  I  can  discover,  except  a  per- 
sonal quarrel  with  a  bear,  kept  by  me  at  Cambridge  to  sit  for  a 
fellowship,  and  whom  the  jealousy  of  his  Trinity  contemporaries 
prevented  from  success,  has  been  abusing  me,  and,  what  is  worse, 
the  defenceless  innocent  above  mentioned,  in  the  "Satirist,"  for 
one  year  and  some  months.  I  am  utterly  unconscious  of  haAang 
given  him  any  provocation;  indeed.  I  am  guiltless  of  having  heard 
his  name  till  coupled  with  the  "Satirist."  He  has  therefore  no 
reason  to  complain,  and  I  dare  say  that,  like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary, 
he  is  rather  pleased  than  otherwise.  I  have  now  mentioned  all  who 
have  done  me  the  honor  to  notice  me  and  mine,  that  is,  my  bear 
and  my  book,  except  the  Editor  of  the  "  Satirist,"  who,  it  seems,  is 
a  gentleman,  God  wot!  I  wish  he  could  Impart  a  little  of  his  gen- 
tility to  his  subordinate  scribblers.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Jerningham  is 
about  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  his  Maecenas,  Lord  CarUsle;  1  hope 
not:  he  was  one  of  the  few  who,  in  the  very  short  intercourse  I  had 
with  him,  treated  me  with  kindness  when  a  boy,  and  whatever  he 
may  say  or  do,  "pour  on.  I  will  endure."  I  have  nothing  further 
to  add,  save  a  general  note  of  thanksgiving  to  readers,  purchasers, 
and  publisher;  and,  in  the  Avords  of  Scott,  I  wish 

"To  all  and  each  a  fair  good-night, 
And  rosy  dreams  and  slumbere  light." 


-t 


^i* 


Ht **^ 


-t 


THE  WALTZ: 

AN  APOSTROPHIC  HYMN. 


"Qualis  in  Eurotse  ripis,  aut  per  jugaCynthi, 
Exercet  Diana  choros."  Viroil. 

"Such  on  Eurota's  banks,  or  Cynthia's  height, 
Diana  seems:  and  so  she  charms  tlie  sight, 
When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 
The  quire  of  nyinphs,  and  overtops  their  heads." 

Dryden's  Virgil, 


TO  THE  PUBLISHER. 

Sir:  I  am  a  country  gentleman  of  a  midland  county.  I  inight 
have  been  a  parliament-man  for  a  certain  borough,  having  had  the 
offer  of  as  many  votes  as  general  T.  at  the  general  election  in  1812.* 
But  I  was  all  for  domestic  happiness:  as,  fifteen  years  ago,  on  a 
visit  to  London,  I  married  a  middle-aged  maid  of  honor.  We  lived 
happily  at  Hornem  Hall  till  last  season,  when  my  wife  and  I  were 
invited  by  the  Countess  of  Waltzaway  (a  distant  i-elative  of  my 
spouse)  to  pass  the  winter  in  town.  Thinking  no  harm,  and  our 
girls  being  come  to  a  marriageable  (or,  as  they  call  it,  marketable) 
age,  and  having  besides  a  Chancery  suit  inveterately  entailed  upon 
the  family  estate,  we  came  up  in  our  old  chariot.— of  which,  by  the 
by,  my  wife  grew  so  much  ashamed  in  less  than  a  week,  that  I 
was  obliged  to  buy  a  second-hand  barouche,  of  which  I  might 
mount  the  box,  Mrs.  II.  says,  if  I  could  drive,  but  never  see  the 
inside— that  place  being  reserved  for  the  Honorable  Augustus 
Tiptoe,  her  partner-general,  and  opera-knight.  Hearing  great 
praises  of  Mrs.  H.'s  dancing,  (she  was  famous  for  birth-night 
minuets  in  the  latter  end  of  the  last  century.)  I  unbooted, 
and  went  to  a  ball  at  the  Countess'.s,  expecting  to  see  a  country 
dance,  or,  at  most,  cotillions,  reels,  and  all  the  old  paces  to 
the  newest  tunes.    But  judge    of  my  surprise,  on    arriving,    to 

♦  State  of  the  poll  (last  day)  5. 


THE  WALTZ.  451 

see  poor  dear  Mrs.  Homem  with  her  arms'  half  round  the 
loins  of  a  huge  hussar-looking  gentleman  I  never  set  eyes  on 
before:  and  his,  to  say  truth,  rather  more  than  half  round  her 
waist,  turning  round,  and  round,  and  round,  to  a  d d  see-saw,  up- 
and-down  sort  of  tune  that  reminded  me  of  the  "Black  Joke," 
only  more  affetuoso,  till  it  made  me  quite  giddy  with  wondering  they 
were  not  so .  By  and  by  they  stopped  a  bit,  and  I  thought  they  would 
sit  or  fall  down: — but  no;  with  Mrs.  H.'s  hand  on  his  shoulder,  qiiam 
familiariter*  (as  Terence  said  when  I  was  at  school)  they  walked 
about  a  minute,  and  then  at  it  again,  like  two  cockchafers  spitted 
upon  the  same  bodkin.  I  asked  what  all  this  meant,  when,  with  a 
loud  laugh,  a  child  no  older  than  our  Wilhelmina,  (a  name  I  never 
heard  but  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  though  her  mother  would  call 
her  after  the  Princess  of  Swappenbach.)  said,  "Lord!  Mr.  Hornem, 
can't  you  see  they  are  valtzing!"  or  waltzing  (I  forget  which);  and 
then  up  she  jot,  and  her  mother  and  sister,  and  away  they  went, 
and  round-abouted  it  till  supper-time.  Now  that  I  know  what  it  is, 
I  like  it  of  all  things,  and  so  does  Mrs.  H.  (though  I  have  broken  my 
shins,  and  four  times  overturned  Mrs.  Hornem's  maid,  in  practising 
the  preliminary  steps  in  a  morning.)  Indeed,  so  much  do  I  like  it, 
that  having  a  turn  for  rhyme,  tastily  displayed  in  some  election 
ballads,  and  songs  in  honor  of  all  the  victories,  (but  till  lately  I  have 
had  little  practice  in  that  way,)  I  sat  down,  and  with  the  aid  of  Wil- 
liam Fitzgerald,  Esq.,  and  a  few  hints  from  Dr.  Busby,  (whose  recita- 
tions I  attend,  and  am  monstrous  fond  of  Master  Busby's  manner  of 
delivering  his  father's  late  successful  "  Drury  Lane  address,")  I  com. 
posed  the  following  hymn,  wherewithal  to  make  my  sentiments 
known  to  the  public:  whom,  nevertheless,  I  heartily  despise,  as  well 
as  the  critics.— I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c.,  <S:c., 

HORACE  HORNEM. 

*  My  Latin  is  all  forgotten,  if  a  man  can  be  said  to  have  forgotten 
what  he  never  remembered;  but  I  bought  my  tille-page  motto  of  a 
Catholic  priest  for  a  three-shilling  bank-token,  after  much  haggling 
for  the  even  sixpence.  1  grudged  the  money  to  a  papist,  being  all 
for  the  memory  of  Perceval  and  "No  popery,"  and  quite  regretting 
the  downfall  of  the  pope,  because  we  can't  burn  him  any  more. 


-t 


*♦ 


*ih IK 


THE  WALTZ. 


Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  feet!*  whose  charmg 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms; 
Terpsichore! — too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid — 
Reproachful  term — bestow'd  but  to  upbraid — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shine, 
The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 
Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude; 
Mock'd,  yet  triumphant;  sneer'd  at,  unsubdued; 
Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly, 
If  but  thy  'ioats  are  reasonably  high; 
Thy  breast — if  bare  enough — requires  no  shield; 
Dance  forth — sans  armor  thon  shalt  take  the  field, 
And  own — impregnable  to  most  assaults. 
Thy  not  too  lawfully  begotten  "  "Waltz." 

Hail,  nimble  nymph!  to  whom  the  young  hussar, 
The  whisker' d  votary  of  waltz  and  war. 
His  night  devotes,  despite  of  spur  and  boots; 
A  sight  unmatch'd  since  Orpheus  and  his  brutes: 
Hail,  spirit-stirring  Waltz!  beneath  whose  banners 
A  modem  hero  fought  for  modish  manners; 
On  Hounslow's  heath  to  rival  Wellesley's  fame,t 
Cock'd — fired — and  miss'd  his  man — but  gain'd  his  aim ; 
Hail,  moving  Muse!  to  whom  the  fair  one's  breast 
Gives  all  it  can,  and  bids  us  take  the  rest. 
Oh  for  the  flow  of  Busby,  or  of  Fitz, 
The  latter's  loyalty,  the  former's  wits, 

*  "Glance  their  many -twinkling  feet."— Gray, 

+  To  rival  Lord  Wellesley's,  or  his  nephew's,  as  the  reader  pleases  :— 
the  one  pained  a  pretty  woman,  whom  he  deserved,  by  fighting  for; 
and  the  other  has  been  fighting  in  the  Peninsula  many  a  long  day, 
"by  Shrewsbury  clock,"  without  gaining  anything  in  //if(t  country 
but  the  title  of  "the  great  Lord,"  and  "the  Lord;"  which  savors  of 
profanation,  havingbeen  hitherto  applied  only  to  that  Being  to  whom 
Te  Deums  for  carnage  are  the  rankest  blasphemy.  It  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  the  general  will  one  day  return  to  his  Sabine  farm; 
there 

"  To  tame  the  genuis  of  the  stubborn  plain. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  he  conquered  Spain!" 

The  Lord  Pett-rborough  conquered  continents  in  a  summer;  we  do 
more — we  contrive  both  to  conquer  and  lose  them  in  a  snorter  sea- 
son. If  the  "  greut  Lord's  "  Cincinnntinn  progress  in  agriculture  b« 
no  speedier  than  tlie  proportional  average  of  time  in  Pope's  couplet, 
it  will,  according  to  the  farmer's  proverb,  ho  "i)loughing  with  dogs." 
By  the  by,  one  of  this  illustrious  person's  new  titles  is  forgotten: 
it  is,  however,  worth  remembermg:  '■'■  Salvador  del  mmido/** 
credite,  posieri/  If  this  bo  the  appellation  annexed  by  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula   to  thq  name  of  a   mayi  who  has 


*ii- 


t 


* *-^ 

THE  WALTZ.  453 

To  "energize  the  object  I  pursue," 

And  give  both  Belial  and  his  dance  their  due! 

Imperial  Waltz!  imported  from  the  Rhine, 
(Famed  for  the  growth  of  pedigrees  and  wine,) 
Long  be  thine  import  from  all  duty  free. 
And  hock  itself  be  less  esteem'd  than  thee: 
In  some  few  qualities  alike — for  hock 
Improves  our  cellar — thou  our  living  stock. 
The  head  to  hock  belongs— thy  subtler  art 
Intoxicates  alone  the  heedless  heart: 
Through  the  full  veins  thy  gentler  poison  swims, 
And  wakes  to  wantonness  the  willing  limbs. 

O  Germany!  how  much  to  thee  we  owe, 
As  heaven-bom  Pitt  can  testify  below. 
Ere  cursed  confederation  made  thee  France's, 

And  only  left  us  thy  d d  debts  and  dances! 

Of  subsidies  and  Hanover  bereft, 

We  bless  thee  still — for  George  the  Third  is  left! 

Of  kings  the  best — and  last,  not  least  in  worth, 

For  graciously  begetting  George  the  Fourth. 

To  Germany,  and  highnesses  serene. 

Who  owe  us  millions — don't  we  owe  the  queen? 

To  Germany,  what  owe  we  not  besides? 

So  oft  bestowing  Brunswickers  and  brides: 

Who  paid  for  vulgar,  with  her  royal  blood, 

Drawn  from  the  stem  of  each  Teutonic  stud; 

Who  sent  us — so  be  pardon'd  all  her  faults — 

A  dozen  dukes,  some  kings,  a  queen — and  Waltz. 

But  peace  to  her — ^her  emperor  and  diet, 
Though  now  transferred  to  Buonaparte's  "fiat!  " 
Back  to  mjT  theme — O  Muse  of  motion!  say. 
How  first  to  Albion  found  thy  Waltz  her  way? 

Borne  on  the  breath  of  hyperborean  gales, 

From  Hamburg's  port  (while  Hamburg  yet  had  maih) 

Ere  yet  unlucky  Fame — eompell'd  to  creep — 

To  snowy  Gottenburg — was  chill' d  to  sleep; 

Or,  starting  from  her  slumbers,  deign'd  arise, 

Heligoland,  to  stock  thy  mart  with  lies; 

While  unbumt  Moscow  yet  had  news  to  send,* 

Nor  owed  her  fiery  exit  to  a  friend, 
# 
not  yet  saved  them — query,  are  they  worth  saTing,  even  in 
this  world?  for,  according  to  the  mildest  modifications  of  any 
Christian  cieed,  those  three  wordsmaketheoddsmuch  against  them 
in  the  next.  "Saviour  of  the  world,"  quotha!— it  were  to  bo  wished 
that  he,  or  any  one  else,  could  save  a  corner  of  it— his  country.  Yet 
this  stupid  misnomer,  although  it  shows  the  near  connection  be- 
tween superstition  and  impiety,  so  far  has  its  use,  that  it  proves 
there  can  be  little  to  dread  f  r-oin  those  Catholics  (inquisitorial  Cath 
olics  too)  who  can  confer  such  an  apjiellation  on  a  Protesiant.  I  sup 
pose  next  year  he  will  be  entitled  tiie  "Virgni  Mary;"  if  po.  Lord 
George  Gordon  himself  would  have  nothing  to  object  to  such  liberal 
bastards  of  our  Lady  of  Babylon. 

*  The  patriotic  arson  of  our  amiable  allies  cannot  be  sufficiently 
commended— nor  subscribed  for.    Amongst  other  details  omitted  in 

*M : A* 


454  THE  WALTZ. 

She  came — Waltz  came — and  with  her  certain  sets 

Of  true  despatches,  and  as  true  /gazettes: 

Then  flamed  of  Austerlitz  the  blest  despatch, 

Which  Moniteur  nor  Morning  Post  can  match; 

And — almost  crush'd  beneath  the  glorious  news — 

Ten  plays,  and  forty  tales  of  Kotzebue's: 

One  envoy's  letters,  six  composers'  airs. 

And  loads  from  Frankfort  and  from  Leipsic  fairs; 

Meiner's  four  volumes  upon  womankind, 

Like  Lapland  witches  to  insure  a  wind; 

Brunck's  heaviest  tome  for  ballast,  and,  to  back  it. 

Of  Heyne,  such  as  should  not  sink  the  packet. 

Fraught  with  this  cargo — and  her  fairest  freight, 
Delightful  Waltz,  on  tiptoe  for  a  mate. 
The  welcome  vessel  reach'd  the  genial  strand, 
And  round  her  flock'd  the  daughters  of  the  land. 
Not  decent  David,  when,  before  the  ark. 
His  gr-dud  pas-seul  excited  some  remark; 
Not  love-lorn  Quixote,  when  his  Sancho  thought 
The  knight's  fandango  friskier  than  it  ought: 
Not  soft  Herodias,  when,  with  winning  tread, 
Her  nimble  feet  danced  off  another's  head; 
Not  Cleopatra  on  her  galley's  deck, 
Display'd  so  much  of  leg,  or  more  of  neck, 
Than  thou,  ambrosial  Waltz,  when  first  the  moon 
Beheld  thee  twirling  to  a  Saxon  tune! 

To  you,  ye  husbands  of  ten  years!  whose  brows 
Ache  with  the  annual  tributes  of  a  spouse; 
To  you  of  nine  years  less,  who  only  bear 
The  budding  sprouts  of  those  that  you  sTudl  wear. 
With  added  ornaments  around  them  roll'd 
Of  native  brass,  or  law-awarded  gold; 
To  you,  ye  matrons,  ever  on  the  watch 
To  mar  a  son's,  or  make  a  daughter's,  match; 
To  you,  ye  children  of — whom  chance  accords — 
Always  the  ladies,  and  sometimes  their  lords; 
To  you,  ye  single  gentlemen,  who  seek 
Torments  for  life,  or  pleasures  for  a  week; 
As  Love  or  Hymen  your  endeavors  guide. 
To  gain  your  own,  or  snatch  another's  bride; — 
To  one  and  all  the  lovely  stranger  came. 
And  every  ball-room  echoes  with  her  name. 

the  various  despa'chesof  onrelqauent  ambassador,  he  did  not  state 
(being  too  iinich  occupied  witli  thu  exploitsof  Colonel  C .  in  swim- 
ming rivers  frozen,  and  gallopin-::  over  roads  impassable.)  that  one 
entire  province  perished  by  famine  in  the  most  melancholy  numner, 
as  follows:— In  General  Rostopchin's  consummate  confiagfation.  the 
consumption  of  tallow  and  train  oil  was  so  great,  that  the  market 
wnsinaclequate  to  the  demand;  and  thus  one  hundred  and  thirty 
three  thousand  persons  wer*^  starved  to  death,  by  being  reduced  to 
wholesome  di'^t.  The  lamp-lighters  of  London  have  since  subscribed 
a  pint  vof  oil)  a  piec".  and  the  tallow-chandlei-s  have  unanimously 
voted  a  quantity  of  the  best  moulds  (four  to  the  pound)  to  the  relief 
of  the  surviving  Scvthians;— the  scarcity  will  soon,  by  sneh  exer- 
tions, and  a  i)roper  attention  to  the  (lualitu  rather  than  the  quanti- 
ty of  provision,  be  totally  .alleviated.  It  is  said,  in  return,  that  the 
untouched  Ukraine  has  subscribed  sixty  thousand  beeves  for  a  day's 
meal  to  our  suffering  manufacturers. 


Ht 


^f- 


^^^ 


THE  WALTZ. 


455 


Endearing  Waltz  I — to  thy  more  melting  tune 
Bow  Irish  jig,  and  ancient  jigadoon. 
Scotch  reels,"  av aunt  1  and  country-dance,  forego 
Your  future  claims  to  each  fantastic  toe! 
Waltz — Waltz  alone — both  legs  and  arms  demands, 
Liberal  of  feet,  and  lavish  of  her  hands; 
Hands  which  may  freely  range  in  public  sight 
Where  ne'er  before— but — pray  "put  out  the  light." 
Methinks  the  glare  of  yonder  chandelier 
Shines  much  too  far — or  I  am  much  too  near; 
And  true,  though  strange — Waltz  whispers  this  remark, 
"My  slippery  steps  are  safest  in  the  darkl" 
But  here  the  Muse  with  due  decorum  halts, 
And  lends  her  longest  petticoat  to  Waltz. 

Observant  travellers  of  every  time! 
Ye  quartos  publish'd  upon  every  clime! 
Oh,  say,  shall  dull  Romaika's  heavy  round, 
Fandango's  wriggle,  or  Bolero's  l];pund; 
Can  Egypt's  Almas — tantalizing  group — * 
Columbia's  caperers  to  the  warlike  whoop — 
Can  aujjht  from  cold  Kamschatka  to  Cape  Horn 
With  Waltz  compare,  or  after  Waltz  be  borne? 
Ah,  no!  from  Morier's  pages  down  to  Gait's, 
Each  tourist  pens  a  paragraph  for  "  Waltz." 


Shades  of  those  belles  whose  reign  began  of  yore. 
With  George  the  Third's — and  ended  long  before! — 
Though  in  your  daughters'  daughters  yet  you  thrive, 
Burst  from  your  lead,  and  be  yourselves  alive! 
Back  to  the  ball-room  speed  your  spectred  host; 
Fool's  Paradise  is  dull  to  that  you  lost. 
No  treacherous  powder  bids  conjecture  quake; 
No  stilf-starch'd  stays  make  meddling  fingers  ache; 
rTransferr'd  to  those  ambiguous  things  that  ape 
Goats  in  their  visage,  women  in  their  shape;)! 

*  Dancing-girls — who  do  for  hire  what  Waltz  doth  gratis. 

+  It  cannot  be  complained  now,  as  in  the  Lady  B;)ussiere's  time, 
of  the  "Sieur  de  la  Ci'oix,"  that  there  be  "no  whiskers;"  but  how 
far  these  ai-e  indications  of  valor  in  the  fielrl,  or  elsewhere,  may  still 
be  questionable.  Much  may  be,  and  hath  been,  avouched  on  both 
sides.  In  the  olden  time  philosophers  had  wliiskers,  and  soldiers 
none:  Scipio  himself  was  shaven;  Hannibal  thought  liis  one  eye 
handson:lfe  enough  without  a  beard;  bijt  Adrian,  the  emperor,  wore 
a  beard,  (having  warts  on  his  chin,  which  neither  the  Empress  Sa- 
bina  nor  even  the  courtiers  could  abide;)  Turenne  had  whiskers, 
Marlborough  none;  Buonaparte  is  unwhiskered,  the  Regent  whisk- 
ered; '•a>YK?f"  greatness  of  mind  and  whiskers  mayor  mnynotgo 
together;  but  certainly  the  different  occurrences,  since  the  growth 
of  the  ^ast  mentioned,  go  further  in  behalf  of  whiskers  than  the 
anathema  of  Anselm  did  against  longhair  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I. — 
Formerly  red  was  a  favorite  color.  See  Lodowiclc  Barry's  comedy 
of  Ram  Alley.  1661,  Act  i.  Sc.  1:— 

"  Taffeta.  Now  for  a  wager — What  colored  beard  comes  next  by 
the  window? 

"  Adriana.    A  black  man's.  T  think. 

"Taffeta.  I  think  not  so:  I  think  a  red,  for  that  is  most  in  fashion." 

There  is  "nothing  new  under  the  .sun;"  but  red,  then  a  favorite, 
has  now  subsided  into  a,  favorite's  color. 


*ll- 


^H- 


456  THE  WALTZ. 

No  damsel  faints  when  rather  closely  press'd, 
But  more  caressing  seems  when  most  caress'd; 
Superfluous  hartshorn  and  reviving  salts, 
Both  banish'd  by  the  sovereign  cordial  **  Waltz.'* 

Seductive  Waltz  1 — though  on  thy  native  shore 
Even  Werther's  self  proclaim'd  thee  half  a  Vvhore; 
Werther — to  decent  vice  though  much  inclined', 
Yet  warm,  not  wanton:  dazzled,  but  not  blind — 
Though  gentle  Genlis,  in  her  strife  with  Stael, 
Would  even  proscribe  thee  from  a  Paris  ball; 
The  fashion  hails — from  countesses  to  queens, 
And  maids  and  valets  waltz  behind  the  scenes; 
Wide  and  more  wide  thy  witching  circle  spreads, 
And  turns — if  nothing  else — at  least  our  heads; 
With  thee  even  clumsy  cits  attempt  to  bounce, 
And  cockneys  practise  what  they  can't  pronounce. 
Gods!  how  the  glorious  theme  my  strain  exalts, 
And  rhyme  finds  partner  rhyme  in  praise  of  Waltz! 

Blest  was  the  time  Waltz  chose  for  her  debut; 
The  court,  the  Regent,  like  herself  were  new;* 
New  face  for  friends,  for  foes  some  new  rewards; 
New  ornaments  for  black  and  royal  guards; 
New  laws  to  hang  the  rogues  that  roar'd  for  bread; 
New  coins  (most  new)  to  follow  those  that  fled;t 
New  victories— nor  can  we  prize  them  less, 
Though  Jenky  wonders  at  his  own  success; 
New  wars,  because  the  old  succeed  so  well, 
That  most  survivors  envy  those  who  fell; 
New  mistresses — no,  old — and  yet  'tis  true, 
Though  they  be  old,  the  thi7if/  is  something  new; 
Each  new,  quite  new — (except  some  ancient  tricks,)t 
New  white-sticks,  gold-sticks,  broom-sticks,  all  new  sticks! 
With  vests  or  ribbons,  dcck'd  alike  in  hue, 
New  troopers  strut,  new  turncoats  blush  in  blue; 
So  saith  the  muse:  my ,  what  say  youV§ 

*  An  anachronism— Waltz  and  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  are  before 
said  to  have  opened  the  ball  together;  the  bard  means,  (if  he  means 
anything,)  Waltz  was  not  so  much  in  vogue  till  the  Regent  attained 
the  acme  of  his  popularity.  Waltz,  the  compt,  whiskere,  and  the 
new  government,  illuminated  heaven  and  earth,  in  all  their  glory, 
much  about  the  same  time;  of  these  the  comet  only  has  disappeared; 
the  other  three  continue  to  astonish  us  stiW.— Printer's  Devil. 

t  Amongst  others  n  new  ninepence — a  creditable  coin  no^  forth- 
coming, worth  a  pound,  in  paper,  at  the  fairest  calculation. 

t  "  Oh  that  right  should  thus  overcome  might!"'  Who  does  not  re- 
member the  '"delicate  investigation"  in  the  "Merry  Wivtss  of 
Windsor?" 

''Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near;  if  I  suspect  without  cause,  why 
then  make  sport  at  me:  then  let  me  be  your  jest;  I  deserve  it.  How 
now?  whither  bear  you  this?  • 

* '  Mrs.  Ford.  What  have  you  to  do  whither  they  bear  it  ?— you  were 
best  meddle  with  buck- washing." 

§  The  gentle,  or  ferocious,  reader  may  fill  up  the  blank  as  he 
pleases— there  are  several  dissyllabic  names  at  his  service  (being 
already  in  the  Regent's);  it  would  not  be  fair  to  back  any  peculiar 
initial  against  the  alphabet,  as  every  month  will  add  to  the  list  now 
entered  for  the  sweepstakes:— a  distinguished  consonant  is  said  to 
be  the  favorite,  much  against  the  wishes  of  the  knowing  ones. 


■HI- 


ft- 

THE  WALTZ.  457 

Such  was  the  time  when  Waltz  might  best  maintain 

Her  new  preferments  in  this  novel  reign: 

Such  was  the  time,  nor  ever  yet  was  such; 

Hoops  are  no  more,  and  petticoats  not  mv/ih; 

Morals  and  minuets,  virtue  and  her  stays, 

And  tell-tale  powder — all  have  had  their  days. 

The  ball  begins— the  honors  of  the  house 

First  duly  done  by  daughter  or  by  spouse, 

Some  potentate — or  royal  or  serene — 

WMth  Kent's  gay  grace,  or  sapient  Glo'ster's  mien, 

Leads  forth  the  ready  dame,  whose  rising  flush 

Might  once  have  been  mistaken  for  a  blush. 

From  where  the  garb  just  leaves  the  bosom  free, 

That  spot  where  hearts  were  once  supposed  to  be;* 

Round  all  the  confines  of  the  yielded  waist, 

The  stranger's  hand  may  wander  undisplaced; 

The  lady's  in  return  may  grasp  as  much 

As  princely  paunches  offer  to  her  touch. 

Pleased  round  the  chalky  floor  how  well  they  trip, 

One  hand  reposing  on  the  royal  hip; 

The  other  to  the  shoulder  no  less  royal 

Ascending  with  affection  truly  loyal! 

Thus  front  to  front  the  partners  move  or  stand, 

The  foot  may  rest,  but  none  withdraw  the  hand; 

And  all  in  turn  may  follow  in  their  rank, 

The  Earl  of — Asterisk — and  Lady — Blank; 

Sir — Such-a-one — with  those  of  fashion's  host, 

For  whose  blest  surnames — vide  Morning  Post 

(Or  if  for  that  impartial  print  too  late. 

Search  Doctors'  Commons  six  months  from  my  date) — 

Thus  all  and  each,  in  movement  swift  or  slow, 

The  genial  contact  gently  undergo; 

Till  some  might  marvel,  with  the  modest  Turk, 

If  "  nothing  follows  all  this  palming  work."t 

True,  honest  Mirza! — you  may  trust  my  rhyme — 

Something  does  follow  at  a  fitter  time; 

The  breast  thus  publicly  resign 'd  to  man 

In  private  may  resist  him — if  it  can. 

O  ye  who  loved  our  grandmothers  of  yore, 
Fitzpatrick,  Sheridan,  and  many  more! 
And  thou,  my  prince!  whose  sovereign  taste  and  will 
It  is  to  love  the  lovely  beldames  still! 
Thou  ghost  of  Queensbury!  whose  judging  sprite 
Satan  may  spare  to  peep  a  single  night. 
Pronounce — if  ever  in  your  days  of  bliss 
Asmodeus  struck  so  bright  a  stroke  as  this? 

♦  "  We  have  changed  allthat."  says  the  Mock  Doctor— 'tis  all  gone 
— Asmodeus  knows  where.  After  all,  it  is  of  no  great  importance 
how  women's  hearts  are  disposed  of;  they  have  nature's  privilege 
to  distribute  them  as  absurdly  as  possible.  But  there  are  also  some 
men  with  hearts  so  thoroughly  bad.  as  to  remind  us  of  those  phe- 
nomena often  mentioned  in  natural  history,  viz.,  a  mass  of  solid 
stone — only  to  be  opened  by  force  and  when  divided,  you  find  a 
toad  in  the  centre,  lively,  and  with  the  reputation  of  being  venomous. 

t  In  Turkey  a  pertinent,  here  an  impertinent  and  superfluous 
c[uestion    literally  put,  as  in  the  text,  by  a  Pei'siau  to  Morier,  on  see- 
ing a  waltz  in  Pera.— F/c?e  Morier's  Travels. 
T 

* *-^ 


-* 


458  THE  WALTZ. 

To  teach  the  young  ideas  how  to  rise, 
Flush  in  the  cheek,  and  languish  in  the  eyes; 
Rush  to  the  heart,  and  lighten  through  the  frame, 
With  half-told  wish  and  ill-dissembled  flame: 
For  prurient  nature  still  will  storm  the  breast — 
Who,  tempted  thus,  can  answer  for  the  rest? 

But  ye — ^who  never  felt  a  single  thought 
For  what  our  morals  are  to  be,  or  ought; 
Who  wisely  wish  the  charms  you  view  to  reap. 
Say — ^would  you  make  those  beauties  quite  so  cheap? 
Hot  from  the  hands  promiscuously  applied. 
Round  the  slight  waist,  or  down  the  glowing  side, 
Where  were  the  rapture  then  to  clasp  the  form 
From  this  lewd  grasp  and  lawless  contact  warm? 
At  once  love's  most  endearing  thought  resign. 
To  press  the  hand  so  press'd  by  none  but  thine; 
To  gaze  upon  that  eye  which  never  met 
Another's  ardent  look  without  regret; 
Approach  the  lip  which  all,  without  restraint, 
Come  near  enough — if  not  to  touch — to  taint; 
If  such  thou  lovest — love  her  then  no  more, 
Or  give — ^like  her — caresses  to  a  score; 
Her  mind  with  these  is  gone,  and  with  it  go 
The  little  left  behind  it  to  bestow. 

Voluptuous  Waltz!  and  dare  I  thus  blaspheme? 
Thy  bard  forgot  thy  praises  were  his  theme. 
Terpsichore,  forgive! — at  every  ball 
My  wife  now  waltzes — and  my  daughters  s^haU; 
My  son — (or  stop — ^tis  needless  to  inquire — 
These  little  accidents  should  ne'er  transpire; 
Some  ages  hence  our  genealogio  tree 
Will  wear  as  green  a  bough  for  him  as  me) — 
Waltzing  shall  rear,  to  make  our  name  amends, 
Qrandsons  for  me— in  heirs  to  all  his  friends. 


^K 


-4 


it 


POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON. 


ODE  TO  NAPOLEON. 

"Expende  Annibalem:— quot  libras  in  duce  summo 
Invenies?"  Juvenal,  Sat.  x. 

"  The  Emperor  Nepos  was  acknowledged  by  the  Senate,  by  the 
Italians,  and  by  the  Provincials  of  Gaul;  his  moral  virtues,  and  mili- 
tary talents,  were  loudly  celebrated;  and  those  who  derived  any 
private  benefit  from  his  government  announced  in  prophetic  strains 
the  restoration  of  public  felicity By  this  shameful  abdica- 
tion he  protracted  his  life  a  few  years,  in  a  very  ambiguous  state, 

between  an  Emperor  and  an  Exile,  till ."—Gibbon's  Decline  and 

Fall,  vol.  vi.  p.  820. 

*Tis  done — but  yesterday  a  King! 

And  arm'd  with  Kings  to  strive — 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing; 

So  abject — yet  alive  1 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strew'd  our  hearth  with  hostile  bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive? 
Since  he,  miscall'd  the  Morning  Star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Ill-minded  man!  why  scourge  thy  kind 

Who  bow'd  so  low  the  knee? 
By  gazing  on  thyself  grown  blind, 

Thou  taught'st  the  rest  to  see. 
With  might  un  question 'd — power  to  save, — 
Thine  only  gift  hath  been  the  grave 

To  those  that  worshipp'd  thee; 
Nor  till  thy  fall  could  mortals  guess 
Ambition  's  less  than  littleness  1 

Thanks  for  that  lesson— it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  Philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preaeh'd  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  triumph,  and  the  vanity. 
The  rapture  of  the  strife — * 

*  "Certamlnis  gaudia  "—the  expression  of  Attila  in  his  harangue 
to  his  army  previous  to  the  battle  of  Chalons,  given  in  Cassiodorus. 


*» 


r 


•IK 


460  POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON. 

The  earthquake  voice  of  Victory, 

To  thee  the  breath  of  life; 
The  sword,  the  sceptre,  and  that  sway 
Which  man  seem'd  made  but  to  obey, 

Wherewith  renown  was  rife — 
All  quell'd! — Dark  Spirit!  what  must  be 
The  madness  of  thy  memory  1 

The  Desolator  desolate! 

The  Victor  overthrown! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone? 
To  die  a  prince — or  live  a  slave — 
Thy  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave! 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 
I       Dream'd  not  of  the  rebound; 
Chain'd  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke — 

Alone — how  look'd  he  round? 
Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength. 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length. 

And  darker  fate  hast  found! 
He  fell  the  forest  prowlers'  prey; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away! 

The  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 

Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 
Threw  down  the  dagger — dared  depart. 

In  savage  grandeur,  home — 
He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn 
Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 

Yet  left  him  such  a  doom! 
His  only  glory  was  that  hour 
Of  self-upheld  abandon'd  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell. 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  suljtle  disputant  on  creeds. 

His  dotage  trifled  well: 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

But  thou— from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung — 
Too  late  thou  kav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung; 
All  Evil  Spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung; 
To  think  that  God's  fau*  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  meanl 


ih" 


POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON.  461 

And  Earth  hath  spilt  her  blood  for  him, 

Who  thus  can  hoard  his  ownl 
And  Monarchs  bow'd  the  trembling  limb, 

And  thank'd  him  for  a  throne! 
Pair  Freedom!  may  we  hold  thee  dear, 
When  thus  thy  mightiest  foes  their  fear 

In  humblest  guise  have  shown. 
Oh!  ne'er  may  tyrant  leave  behind 
A  brighter  name  to  lure  mankind! 

Thine  evil  deeds  are  writ  in  gore, 

Nor  written  thus  in  vain — 
Thy  triumphs  tell  of  fame  no  more, 

Or  deepen  every  stain: 
If  thou  hadst  died  as  honor  dies. 
Some  new  Napoleon  might  arise, 

To  shame  the  world  again — 
But  who  would  soar  the  solar  height. 
To  set  in  such  a  starless  night? 

Weigh 'd  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay; 
Thy  scales,  Mortality!  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away: 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate. 

To  dazzle  and  dismay; 
Nor  deem'd  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 

Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

And  she,  proud  Austria's  mournful  flower, 

Thy  still  imperial  bride; 
How  bears  her  breast  the  torturing  hour? 

Still  clings  she  to  thy  side? 
Must  she,  too,  bend, — must  she,  too,  share, 
Thy  late  repentance,  long  despair. 

Thou  throneless  Homicide? 
If  still  she  loves  thee,  hoard  that  gem; 

'Tis  worth  thy  vanish'd  diadem! 

Then  haste  thee  to  thy  sullen  Isle, 

And  gaze  upon  the  sea; 
That  element  may  meet  thy  smile — 

It  ne'er  was  ruled  by  thee! 
Or  trace  with  thine  all  idle  hand. 
In  loitering  mood  upon  the  sand. 

That  Earth  is  now  as  free! 
That  Corinth's  pedagogue  hath  now 
Transferr'd  his  by- word  to  thy  brow. 

Thou  Timour!  in  his  captive's  cage 

What  thoughts  will  there  be  thine, 
While  brooding  in  thy  prison'd  rage? 

But  one — "  The  world  was  mine!" 
Unless,  like  he  of  Babylon, 
All  sense  is  with  thy  sceptre  gone, 

Life  will  not  long  confine 
That  spirit  pour'd  so  widely  forth— 
So  long  obey'd— so  little  worthi 


*- 


4- 


4K 


POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON. 

Or.  like  the  thief  of  fire  from  heaven, 

Wilt  thou  withstand  the  shoek? 
And  share  with  him,  the  unforgiven, 

His  vulture  and  his  rock? 
Foredoom 'd  by  God — by  man  accurst, 
And  that  last  act,  though  not  thy  worst, 

The  very  Fiend's  arch  mock; 
He,  in  his  fall  preserved  his  pride, 
And,  if  a  mortal,  had  as  proudly  diedl 


ODE  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 
I. 

We  do  not  curse  thee,  Waterloo! 
Though  Freedom's  blood  thy  plain  bedew: 
There  'twas  shed,  but  is  not  sunk- 
Rising  from  each  gory  trunk, 
Like  the  water-spout  from  ocean, 
With  a  strong  and  growing  motion — 
It  soars,  and  mingles  in  the  air, 
With  that  of  lost  Labedoyere — 
With  that  of  him  whose  honored  grave 
Contains  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave." 
A  crimson  cloud  it  spreads  and  glows, 
But  shall  return  to  whence  it  rose: 
When  'tis  full  'twill  burst  asunder — 
Never  yet  was  heard  such  thunder, 
As  then  shall  shake  the  world  with  wonder- 
Never  yet  was  seen  such  lightning 
As  o'er  heaven  shall  then  be  bright'ningl 
Like  the  Wormwood  Star  foretold 
By  the  sainted  Seer  of  old, 
Showering  down  a  fiery  flood, 
Turning  rivers  into  blood.* 


The  chief  has  fallen!  but  not  by  you. 

Vanquishers  of  Waterloo! 

When  the  soldier-citizen 

Sway'd  not  o'er  his  fellow-men— 

Save  in  deeds  that  led  them  on 

Where  Glory  smiled  on  Freedom's  son — 

Who,  of  all  the  despots  banded. 

With  that  youthful  chief  competed? 

Who  could  boast  o'er  France  defeated. 
Till  lone  Tyranny  commanded? 

*  See  Rev.  viii.  7,  «S:c. :  "  The  first  anprel  sounded,  and  there  fol- 
lowed hail  and  fire  mingled  with  blood,"  &c.  Ver.  8:  "  Aiui  the 
second  angel  sounded,  and  as  it  were  a  great  mountain  burning  with 
fire  was  cast  into  the  sea;  and  the  third  part  of  the  sea  became 
blood,"  Ac.  Ver.  10:  ''And  the  third  angel  sounded,  and  there  fell 
a  great  star  from  heaven,  burning  as  it  were  a  lamp,  and  it  fell 
upon  the  third  part  of  the  rivers,  and  upon  the  fountains  of  waters." 
ver.  11:  "And  the  name  of  the  stnr  is  called  Womui)oo<i :  antl  the 
third  part  of  the  waters  became  irormwond  ;  and  many  men  died  of 
the  waters,  because  they  were  made  bitter." 


^^* 


^ ft" 

POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON.  463 

Till,  goaded  by  ambition's  eting. 
The  Hero  sunk  into  the  King? 
Then  he  fell; — so  perish  all, 
Who  would  men  by  man  enthrall  1 

III- 
And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume! 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomb; 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Then  sold  thyself  to  death  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears, 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 

On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks. 

Like  a  stream  which  bursts  its  banks. 
While  helmets  cleft.,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shiver'd  fast  around  thee — 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee  I 
Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 
By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow? 
Once — as  the  moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 
It  roll'd  in  air,  the  warrior's  gxiide; 
Through  the  smoke-created  night 
Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight. 
The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 
To  catch  that  crest's  ascendancy — 
And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose, 
So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes- 
There  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 
And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 
Strew'd  beneath  the  advancing  bann 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest — 
(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 
Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest — 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast?) 
While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain; 
There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging! 

There  he  ae'er  shall  charge  again! 

IV. 

*  O'er  glories  gone  the  invaders  march. 

Weep  Triumph  o'er  each  ieveil'd  arch — 

But  let  Freedom  rejoice. 

With  her  heart  in  her  voice; 

But  her  hand  on  her  sword. 

Doubly  shall  she  be  adored; 

France  hath  twice  too  well  been  taught 

The  "  moral  lesson"  dearly  bought-— 

Her  safety  sits  not  on  a  throne, 

With  Capet  or  Napoleon! 

But  in  equal  rights  and  laws. 

Hearts  and  hands  in  one  great  cause — 

Freedom,  such  as  God  hath  given 

Unto  all  beneath  His  heaven, 

♦* fr^ 


ft^ 

464  POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON. 

With  their  breath,  and  from  their  birth, 
Though  Guilt  would  sweep  it  from  the  earth; 
"With  a  fierce  and  lavish  hand 
Scattering  nations'  wealth  like  sand; 
Pouring  nations'  blood  like  water, 
In  imperial  seas  of  slaughter! 

V. 

But  the  heart  and  the  mind, 
And  the  voice  of  mankind, 
Shall  arise  in  communion — 
And  who  shall  resist  that  proud  union? 
The  time  is  past  when  swords  subdued — 
Man  may  die — the  soul  's  renew'd: 
Even  in  this  low  world  of  care 
Freedom  ne'er  shall  want  an  heir; 
Millions  breathe  but  to  inherit 
Her  for  ever  bounding  spirit — 
When  once  more  her  hosts  assemble. 
Tyrants  shall  believe  and  tremble — 
Smile  they  at  this  idle  threat? 
Crimson  tears  will  follow  yet. 


TO  NAPOLEON. 


FROM   THE  FRENCH. 

Must  thou  go,  my  glorious  Chief,* 

Sever'd  from  thy  faithful  few? 
Who  can  tell  thy  warriors'  grief, 

Maddening  o'er  that  long  adieu? 
Woman's  love,  and  friendship's  zeal. 

Dear  as  both  have  been  to  me — 
What  are  they  to  all  I  feel, 

With  a  soldier's  faith  for  thee? 

Idol  of  the  soldier's  soul! 

First  in  fight,  but  mightiest  nowl 
Many  could  a  world  control: 

I.Tiee  alone  no  doom  can  bow. 
By  thy  side  for  years  I  dared 

Death;  and  envied  those  who  fell, 
When  their  dying  shout  was  heard, 

Blessing  him  they  served  so  well.f  • 

Would  that  I  were  cold  with  those. 

Since  this  hour  I  live  to  see; 
When  the  doubts  of  coward  foes 

Scarce  dare  trust  a  man  with  thee. 

*  "All  wept,  but  particularly  Savary,  and  a  Polish  oflficer,  who  had 
been  exalted  from  th«  ranks  by  Buonaparte.  He  olunf?  to  his  mas- 
ter's knees;  wrote  a  letter  to  Lord  Keith,  entreating  permission  to 
accompany  him,  even  in  the  most  meuial  capacity,  which  could  not 
be  admitted." 

t  "At  Waterloo,  one  man  was  seen,  whose  left  arm  was  shattered 
by  a  cannon-ball,  to  wrench  it  off  with  the  other,  and  throwing  it  xip 
in  the  air,  exclaimed  to  his  comrades,  'Vive  rEmi)ereur,  insqu'a  la 
mortl*  There  were  many  other  instances  of  the  like.  This,  how- 
ever, you  may  depend  on  as  true,"— JFVivafe  Letter  from  Brussels, 

** *-^ 


4 


^ 

POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON.  465 

Dreading  each  should  set  thee  free! 

Oh!  although  in  dungeons  pent, 
All  their  chains  were  light  to  me, 

Gazing  on  thy  soul  unbent. 

Would  the  sycophants  of  him  • 

Now  so  deaf  to  duty's  prayer, 
Were  his  borrow' d  glories  dim, 

In  his  native  darkness  share? 
Were  that  world  this  hour  his  own. 

All  thou  calmly  dost  resign, 
Could  he  purchase  with  that  throne 

Hearts  like  those  which  still  are  thine? 

My  chief ,  my  king,  my  friend,  adieu! 

Never  did  I  droop  before; 
Never  to  my  sovereign  sue. 

As  his  foes  I  now  implore: 
All  I  ask  is  to  divide 

Every  peril  he  must  brave; 
Sharing  by  the  hero's  side 

His  fall,  his  exile,  and  his  grave. 


NAPOLEON'S  FAREWELL. 

FKOM  THE  FRENCH. 

Farewell  to  the  Land,  where  the  gloom  of  my  glory 

Arose  and  o'ershadow'd  the  earth  with  her  name — 
She  abandons  me  now — but  the  page  of  her  story. 

The  brightest  or  blackest,  is  fill'd  with  my  fame. 
I  have  warr'd  with  a  world  which  vanquish 'd  me  only 

When  the  meteor  of  conquest  allured  me  too  far; 
I  have  coped  with  the  nations  which  dread  me  thus  lonely, 

The  last  single  Captive  to  millions  in  war. 

Farewell  to  thee,  France  1  when  thy  diadem  crown'd  me, 

I  made  thee  the  gem  and  the  wonder  of  earth, — 
But  thy  weakness  decrees  I  should  leave  as  I  found  thee, 

Decay'd  in  thy  glory,  and  sunk  in  thy  worth. 
Oh  I  for  the  veteran  hearts  that  were  wasted 

In  strife  with  the  storm,  when  their  battles  were  won— 
Then  the  Eagle,  whose  gaze  in  that  moment  was  blasted, 

Had  still  soar'd  with  eyes  fix'd  on  victory's  sun! 

Farewell  to  thee,  France!— but  when  Liberty  rallies 

Once  more  in  thy  regions,  remember  me  then — 
The  violet  still  grows  in  the  depth  of  thy  valleys; 

Though  wither'd,  thy  tears  will  unfold  it  again— 
Yet,  yet  1  may  baffle  the  hosts  that  surround  us, 

And  yet  may  thy  heart  leap  awake  to  my  voice — 
There  are  links  which  must  break  in  the  chain  that  has 
bound  us. 

Then  turn  thee  and  call  on  the  Chief  of  thy  choice! 


^ ■ — «^ 

466  POEMS  ON  NAPOLEON. 


ON  THE  STAR  OF  "THE  LEGION  OF  HONOR." 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Star  of  the  brave  1 — whose  beam  hath  shed 

Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead — 

Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit! 

Which  millions  rush'd  in  arms  to  greet, — 

Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth; 

Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  Earth! 

Souls  of  slain  heroes  form'd  thy  rays; 
Eternity  flash'd  through  thy  blaze; 
The  mu^ic  of  thy  martial  sphere 
Was  fame  on  hi^h  and  honor  here: 
And  thy  li^ht  broke  on  human  eyes, 
Like  a  volcano  of  the  skies. 

Like  lava  roU'd  thy  stream  of  blood. 
And  swept  down  empires  with  its  flood; 
Earth  rock'd  beneath  thee  to  her  base, 
As  thou  didst  lighten  through  all  space; 
And  the  shorn  Sun  grew  dim  in  air. 
And  set  while  thou  wert  dwelling  tnere. 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue 

Of  three  bright  colors,  each  divine,* 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes: 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light: 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave!  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail! 
But,  O  thou  Rainbow  of  tlu*  free! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee. 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 

♦    And  Freedom  hallows  with  her  tread 
The  silent  cities  of  the  dead; 
For  beautiful  in  death  are  they 
Who  proudly  fall  in  her  array; 
And  soon,  O  Goddess!  may  we  be 
For  evermore  with  them  or  thee  I 

•  The  tricolor. 


^H- 


^I- 


POEMS  TO  THYRZA.     . 


TO  THYRZA. 

Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 
And  say,  what  Truth  might  well  have  said, 

By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot, 
Ah!  wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid? 

By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain! 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee, 

To  bid  us  meet — no — ne'er  again! 

Could  this  have  been — ^a  word,  a  look. 

That  softly  said,  *'  We  part  in  peace," 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook, 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 

And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 

Prepared  a  light  and  pangl-ess  dart, 
Once  long  for  him  thou  ne'er  shalt  see. 

Who  held,  and  holds  th^e  in  his  heart? 

Oh!  who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here? 

Or  sadly  mark'd  thy  glazing  eye. 
In  that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh. 

Till  all  was  past!    But  when  no  more 

'Twas  thine  to  reck  of  human  woe, 
Affection's  heart-drops,  gushing  o'er, 

Had  flow'd  as  fast — ^as  now  they  flow. 

Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 
Ere  caird  but  for  a  time  away. 

Affection's  mingling  tears  were  ours? 

Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand; 
The  whisper' d  thought  oi  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand; 

The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined. 

That  Love  each  warmer  wish  forbore; 
Those  eyes  proclaim' d  so  pure  a  mind. 

Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 

♦* — *♦ 


— m^ 

468  POEMS  TO  THYRZA. 

The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 

When  prone,  unlike  thee,  to  repine; 
The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice, 

But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine; 

The  pledge  we  wore — I  wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine? — Ah!  where  art  thou? 
Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

But  never  bent  beneath  till  now! 

Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  woe  for  me  to  drain. 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I  would  not  wish  thee  here  again; 

But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere. 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss. 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 

Teach  me— too  early  taught  by  thee! 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven: 
On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me; 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven! 
October  11, 1811. 


AWAY,  AWAY,  YE  NOTES  OF  WOE. 

Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  woe! 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain, 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence — ^for,  oh! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days— 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas! 
I  must  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze, 

On  what  I  am — on  what  I  was. 

The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

Is  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead! 
Yes,  Thyrza!  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee. 

Beloved  dust!  since  dust  thou  art; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart. 

'Tis  silent  all!— but  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill, 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still. 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 

Sweet  Thyrza!  waking  as  in  sleep. 
Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream; 

A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep. 
Then  tura'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 


♦it 


r 


^ —^ ^ 

POEMS  TO  THTRZA.  469 

But  he  who  through  life's  dreary  way 
Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath, 

Will  long  lament  the  vanish'd  ray 
That  scattered  gladness  o'er  his  path. 
December  6,  1811. 


ONE  STRUGGLE  MORE,  AND  I  AM  FREE. 

One  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before, 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more? 

Then  bring  me  wine,  the  banquet  bring, 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone: 
I'll  be  that  light,  unmeaning  thing, 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear, 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou- 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here; 

Thou'rt  nothing — all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe  I 

The  smile  that  sorrow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  woe  that  lurks  beneath. 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  a  while  the  sense  of  ill; 
Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul. 

The  heart— the  heart  is  lonely  still  I  ♦ 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  soothed  to  gaze  upon  the  sky; 
For  then  I  deem'd  the  heavenly  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye: 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the^gean  wave, 
"Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — '* 

Alas,  it  gleam'd  upon  her  grave! 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"  'Tis  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

"  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains:" 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  elave, 

A  boon  'tis  idle  then  to  give. 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live  I 

My  Thyrza's  pledge  in  better  days. 
When  love  and  life  alike  were  new! 

How  different  now  thou  meet'st  my  gazel 
How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  huel 


■HI- 


r 


^ ^ 

470  POEMS  TO  THTRZA. 

Tho  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent — ah,  were  miue  as  still! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge!  thou  mournful  tokeni 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast! 
Still,  still  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou'rt  prest! 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes. 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled: 
Oh !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead? 


EUTHANASIA. 


When  Time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead. 

Oblivion!  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying-bed! 

No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow; 

No  maiden,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
To  feel,  or  feign,  decorous  woe. 

But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 
With  no  officious  mourners  near; 

I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  tear. 

Yet  Love,  if  Love  in  such  an  hour 
Could  nobly  check  its  useless  sighs, 

Might  then  exert  its  latest  power 
In  her  who  lives  and  him  who  dies. 

'Twerc  sweet,  my  Psyche!  to  the  last 
Thy  features  still  serene  to  see; 

Forgetful  of  its  struggles  past. 
E'en  Pain  itself  should  smile  on  thee. 

But  vain  the  wish — for  Beauty  still 
Will  shrink,  as  shrinks  the  ebbing  breath; 

And  woman's  tears,  produced  at  will, 
Deceive  in  life,  unman  in  death. 

Then  lonely  be  my  latest  hour. 
Without  regret,  without  a  groan; 

For  thousands  Death  hath  ceased  to  lower, 
And  pain  been  transient  or  unknown. 

"Ay,  but  to  die  and  go,"  alas! 

Where  all  have  gone,  and  all  must  go. 
To  be  the  nothing  that  I  was 

Ere  born  to  life  and  living  woe. 

Count  o'er  the  joys  thine  hours  have  seen, 
Count  o'er  thy  days  from  anguish  free. 

And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Tis  something  better  not  to  be. 


-f 


^K 


— .= ffi^ 

POEMS  TO  THYRZA.  471 

AND  THOU  ART  DEAD,  AS  YOUNG  AS  FAIR. 
"  Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum  reliquis  versari  quam  tui  meminisse  1" 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth; 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare, 

Too  soon  return 'd  to  Earth! 
Though  earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth. 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low, 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow, 

So  I  behold  them  not: 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell, 
'Tis  nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last 

As  fervently  as  thou. 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal. 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow; 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine: 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away; 
I  might  have  watch 'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away: 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  to-day; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade; 
The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade: 

** i- 


^ 

472  POEMS  TO  THYRZA. 

Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  pass'd,  - 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last: 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd; 
As  stars  that  shoot  alonjj  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed, 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed; 
To  gaze,  "how  fondly!  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee! 
The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 
Fdmtary,  1812. 


IF  SOMETIMES  IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN. 

If  sometimes  in  the  haunts  of  men 

Thine  image  from  my  breast  may  fade, 
The  lonely  hour  presents  again 

The  semblance  of  thy  gentle  shade: 
And  now  that  sad  and  silent  hour 

Thus  much  of  thee  can  still  restore, 
And  sorrow  unobserved  may  pour 

The  plaint  she  dare  not  speak  before. 

Oh,  pardon  that  in  crowds  awhile 

I  waste  one  thought  I  owe  to  thee, 
And,  self-condemn 'd,  appear  to  smile, 

Unfaithful  to  thy  memory! 
Nor  deem  that  memory  less  dear. 

That  then  I  seem  not  to  repine; 
I  would  not  fools  should  overhear 

One  sigh  that  should  be  wholly  thine. 

If  not  the  goblet  pass  unquafi'd, 

It  is  not  drained  to  banish  care; 
The  cup  must  hold  a  deadlier  draught, 

fhat  brings  a  Lethe  for  despair. 
And  could  Oblivion  set  my  soul 

From  all  her  troubled  visions  free, 
I'd  dash  to  earth  the  sweetest  bowl 

That  drown'd  a  single  thought  of  thee. 


■Ht 


*m *■ 

POEMS  TO  THYRZA.  473 

For  wert  thou  vanish'd  from  my  mind. 

Where  could  my  vacant  bosom  turn? 
And  who  would  then  remain  behind 

To  honor  thine  abandon'd  Urn? 
No,  no — it  is  my  sorrow's  pride 

That  last  dear  duty  to  fulfil; 
Though  all  the  world  forget  beside, 

'Tis  meet  that  I  remember  still. 

For  well  I  know  that  such  had  been 

Thy  gentle  care  for  him,  who  now 
Unmoum'd  shall  quit  this  mortal  scene, 

Where  none  regarded  him  but  thou: 
And,  oh!  I  feel  in  that  was  given 

A  blessing  never  meant  for  me; 
Thou  wert  too  like  a  dream  of  heaven. 

For  earthly  Love  to  merit  thee. 
March  U,  1812. 


HI if^ 


ii JH- 


-? 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 


FARE  THEE  WELL. 


'*Alas!  they  had  been  friends  in  youth; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain: 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain; 

But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining. 

Like  cliffs,  which  had  been  rent  asunder; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Coleridqk's  Ckristabel. 


Fark  thee  well!  and  if  for  ever 

Still  for  ever,  fare  tJiee  icdl; 
Even  thous^h  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  mj  heart  rebeL 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee, 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again: 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
'Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee — 
Though  it  smile  ujwn  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee, 
Founded  on  another's  woe: 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 

Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 
Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 

To  inllict  a  cureless  wound? 


« ^ 

DOMESTIC  PIECES.  475 

Yet,  oh  yet,  thyself  deceive  not: 

Love  may  siuk  by  slow  decay, 
But  by  sudden  wrench,  believe  not 

Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away; 

Still  thine  own  its  life  Tetaineth — 
Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat: 

And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

These  are  words  of  deeper  sorrow 

Than  the  wail  above  the  dead; 
Both  shall  live,  but  every  morrow 

Wake  us  from  a  widow'd  bed. 

And  when  thou  would'st  solace  gather, 

When  our  child's  first  accents  flow. 
Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say  "  Father!'' 

Though  his  care  she  must  forego? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 

When  her  lip  to  thine  is  press'd, 
Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee. 

Think  of  him  thy  love  had  bless'd. 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 

Those  thou  never  more  mayst  see, 
Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 

With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

All  my  faults  perchance  thou  knowest, 

All  my  madness  none  can  know; 
All  ray  hopes,  where'er  thou  goest, 

Wither,  yet  with  thee  they  go. 

Every  feeling  hath  been  shaken; 

Pride,  which  not  a  world  could  bow, 
Bows  to  thee— by  thee  forsaken. 

Even  my  soul  forsakes  me  now: 

But  'tis  done — all  words  are  idle — 

Words  from  me  are  vainer  still; 
But  the  thoughts  we  cannot  bridle 

Force  their  way  without  the  will. 

Fare  thee  well! — thus  disunited, 

Tom  from  every  nearer  tie, 
Sear'd  in  heart,  and  lone,  and  blighted. 
More  than  this  I  scarce  can  die. 
March  17,  1816. 


A  SKETCH. 

"  Honest— honest  lago! 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil,  I  cannot  kill  thee." 

Shakspkark. 

Born  in  the  garret,  In  the  kitchen  bred, 
Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head; 
Next — for  some  gracious  service  unexpress'd 
And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guess'd — 

^ ^ 


^ 

476  DOMESTIC  PIECES. 

Raised  from  the  toilette  to  the  table. — ^where 
Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  ner  chair. 
With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabash'd, 
She  dines  from  olf  the  plate  she  lately  wash'd. 
Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie — 
The  genial  confldante,  and  general  spy — 
Who  could,  ye  gods!  her  next  employment  guess — 
An  only  infant's  earliest  governess! 
She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so  well, 
That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  leam'ti  to  spell. 
An  adept  next  in  penmanship  she  grows, 
As  many  a  nameless  slander  deftly  shows: 
What  she  had  made  the  pupil  of  her  art, 
None  knew— but  that  high  Soul  secured  the  heart, 
And  panted  for  the  truth  it  could  not  hear, 
With  longing  breast  and  undeluded  ear. 
Foil'd  was  perversion  by  that  youthful  mind, 
Which  Flattery  fooled  not— Baseness  could  not  blind, 
Deceit  infect  not — near  Contagion  soil — 
Indulgence  weaken— nor  Example  spoil— 
Nor  master'd  Science  tempt  her  to  look  down 
Qn  humbler  talents  with  a  pitying  frown — 
Nor  Genius  swell — nor  Beauty  render  vain — 
Nor  Envy  ruffle  to  retaliate  pain — 
Nor  Fortune  change — Pride  raise — ^nor  Passion  bow, 
Nor  Virtue  teach  austerity — till  now. 
Serenely  purest  of  her  sex  that  live, 
But  wanting  one  sweet  weakness — to  forgive; 
^  Too  shock'd  at  faults  her  soul  can  never  Know, 

She  deems  that  all  could  be  like  her  below: 
Foe  to  all  vice,  yet  hardly  Virtue's  friend. 
For  Virtue  pardons  those  she  would  amend. 


But  to  the  theme: — ^now  laid  aside  too  long. 
The  baleful  Burden  of  this  honest  song — 
Though  all  her  former  functions  are  no  more. 
She  rules  the  circle  which  she  served  before. 
If  mothers — none  know  why — before  her  quake; 
If  daughters  dread  her  for  the  mothers'  sake; 
If  early  habits — those  false  links  which  bind 
At  times  the  loftiest  to  the  meanest  mind — 
Have  given  her  power  too  deeply  to  instil 
The  angry  essence  of  her  deadly  will; 
If  like  a  snake  she  steal  within  your  walls. 
Till  the  black  slime  betray  her  as  she  crawls; 
If  like  a  viper  to  the  heart  she  wind. 
And  leave  the  venom  there  she  did  not  find; 
What  marvel  that  this  hag  of  hatred  works 
Eternal  evil  latent  as  she  lurks. 
To  make  a  Pandemonium  where  she  dwells, 
And  reign,  the  Hecate  of  domestic  hells? 
Skill'd  by  a  touch  to  deepen  scandal's  tints 
With  all  the  kind  mendacity  of  hints, 
While  mingling  truth  with  falsehood — sneers  with  smiles — 
A  thread  of  candor  with  a  web  of  wiles; 
A  plain  blunt  show  of  briefly-spoken  seeming. 


^K 


^h 


DOMESTIC  PIECES.  477 

To  hide  her  bloodless  heart's  soul-harden'd  scheming; 

A  lip  of  lies — a  face  form'd  to  conceal; 

And,  without  feeling,  mock  at  all  who  feel: 

With  a  vile  mask  the  Gorgon  would  disown; 

A  cheek  of  parchment — and  an  eye  of  stone. 

Mark,  how  the  channels  of  her  yellow  blood 

Ooze  to  her  skin,  and  stagnate  there  to  mud, 

Cased  like  the  centipede  in  saffron  mail, 

Or  darker  greenness  of  the  scorpion's  scale — 

^or  drawn  from  reptiles  ^nly  may  we  trace 

Congenial  colors  in  that  soul  or  face) — 

Look  on  her  features!  and  behold  her  mind 

As  in  a  mirror  of  itself  defined: 

Look  on  the  picture!  deem  it  not  o'ercharged — 

There  is  no  trait  which  might  not  be  enlarged: 

Yet  true  to  "  Nature's  journeymen,"  who  made 

This  monster  when  their  mistress  left  off  trade — 

This  female  dog-star  of  her  little  sky, 

Where  all  beneath  her  influence  droop  or  die. 

Oh!  wretch  without  a  tear— without  a  thought, 
Save  joy  above  the  ruin  thou  hast  wrought — 
The  time  shall  come,  nor  long  remote,  when  thou 
Shalt  feel  far  more  than  thou  inflietest  now; 
Feel  for  thy  vile  self-loving  self  in  vain, 
And  turn  thee  howling  in  unpitied  pain. 
May  the  strong  curse  of  crush'd  affections  light 
Back  on  thy  bosom  with  reflected  blight! 
.    And  make  thee  in  thy  leprosy  of  mind 
As  loathsome  to  thyself  as  to  mankind! 
Till  all  thy  self-thoughts  curdle  into  hate. 
Black— as  thy  will  for  others  would  create: 
Till  thy  hard  heart  be  calcined  into  dust, 
And  thy  soul  welter  in  its  hideous  crust. 
Oh,  may  thy  grave  be  sleepless  as  the  bed, — 
The  widow'd  couch  of  fire,  that  thou  hast  spread! 
Then,  when  thou  fain  wouldst  weary  Heaven  with  prayer, 
Look  on  thine  earthly  victims — and  despair! 
Down  to  the  dust! — and,  as  thou  rott'st  away, 
Even  worms  shall  perish  on  thy  poisonous  clay. 
But  for  the  love  I  bore,  and  still  must  bear, 
To  her  thy  malice  from  all  ties  would  tear — 
Thy  name — thy  human  name — to  every  eye 
The  climax  of  all  scorn  should  hang  on  high, 
Exalted  o'er  thy  less  abhorred  compeers — 
And  festering  in  the  infamy  of  years. 
March  29,  1816. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA. 

When  all  around  grew  drear  and  dark. 

And  reason  half  withheld  her  ray — 
And  hope  but  shed  a  dying  spark 

Which  more  misled  my  lonely  way; 

-* ** 


iK 


478  DOMESTIC  PIECES. 

In  that  deep  midnight  of  the  mind, 
And  that  internal  strife  of  heart, 

When  dreading  to  be  deem'd  too  kind, 
The  weak  despair— the  cold  depart; 

When  fortune  changed — and  love  fled  far, 
And  hatred's  shafts  flew  thick  and  fast. 

Thou  wert  the  solitary  star 
Which  rose,  and  set  not  to  the  last. 

Oh!  blest  be  thine  uijbroken  light! 

That  watch'd  me  as  a  seraph's  eye. 
And  stood  between  me  and  the  night, 

For  ever  shining  sweetly  nigh. 

And  when  the  cloud  upon  us  came, 
Which  strove  to  blacken  o'er  thy  ray — 

Then  purer  spread  its  gentle  flame, 
And  dash'd  the  darkness  all  away. 

Still  may  thy  spirit  dwell  on  mine. 
And  teach  it  what  to  brave  or  brook — 

There  's  more  in  one  soft  word  of  thine 
Than  in  the  world's  defied  rebuke. 

Thou  stood'st,  as  stands  a  lovely  tree, 
That  still  unbroke,  though  gently  bent, 

Still  waves  with  fond  fidelity 
Its  boughs  above  a  monument. 

The  winds  might  rend— the  skies  might  pour, 
But  there  thou  wert — and  still  wouldst  be 

Devoted  in  the  stormiest  hour 
To  shed  thy  weeping  leaves  o'er  me. 

But  thou  and  thine  shall  know  no  blight, 
Whatever  fate  on  me  may  fall; 

For  Heaven  in  sunshine  will  requite 
The  kind — and  thee  the  most  of  all. 

Then  let  the  ties  of  baflaed  love 
Be  broken— thine  will  never  break: 

Thy  heart  can  feel— but  will  not  move; 
Thy  soul,  though  soft,  will  never  shake. 

And  these,  when  all  was  lost  beside, 
Were  found,  and  still  are  fix'd  in  thee;  — 

And  bearing  still  a  breast  so  tried, 
Earth  is  no  desert— e'en  to  me. 


STANZAS  TO  AUGUSTA. 

Though  the  day  of  destiny  's  over, 

And  the  star  of  my  fate  hath  declined, 
Thy  soft  heart  refused  to  discover 

The  faults  which  so  many  could  find; 
Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted. 

It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me. 
And  the  love  which  my  spirit  hath  painted 

It  never  hath  found  but  in  thcc. 


Mir 


DOMESTIC   PIECES.  479 

Then  when  nature  around  me  is  smiling, 

The  last  smile  which  answers  to  mine, 
I  do  not  believe  it  beguiling, 

Because  it  reminds  me  of  thine; 
And  when  winds  are  at  war  with  the  ocean, 

As  the  breasts  I  believed  in  with  me, 
K  their  billows  excite  an  emotion, 

It  is  that  they  bear  me  from  thee. 

Though  the  rock  of  my  last  hope  is  shiver' d, 

And  its  fragments  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Though  I  feel  that  my  soul  is  deliver'd 

To  pain —  it  shall  not  be  its  slave. 
There  is  many  a  pang  to  pursue  me: 

They  may  crush,  but  they  shall  not  contemn — 
They  may  torture,  but  shall  not  subdue  me — 

'lis  of  thee  that  I  think — not  of  them. 

Though  human,  thou  didst  not  deceive  me. 

Though  woman,  thou  didst  not  forsake. 
Though  loved,  thou  forborest  to  grieve  me. 

Though  slander' d,  thou  never  couldst  shake, — 
Though  trusted,  thou  didst  not  disclaim  me, 

Though  parted,  it  was  not  to  fly. 
Though  watchful,  'twas  not  to  defame  me, 

Nor,  mute,  that  the  world  might  belie. 

Tet  I  blame  not  the  world,  nor  despise  it, 

Nor  the  war  of  the  many  with  one — 
If  ray  soul  was  not  fitted  to  prize  it, 

'Twas  folly  not  sooner  to  shun: 
And  if  dearly  that  error  hath  cost  me, 

And  more  than  I  once  could  foresee, 
I  have  found  that,  whatever  it  lost  me, 

It  could  not  deprive  me  of  thee. 

From  the  wreck  of  the  past,  which  hath  perish'd, 

Thus  much  I  at  least  may  recall, 
It  hath  taught  me  that  what  I  most  cherish'd 

Deserved  to  be  dearest  of  all: 
In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 

In  the  wide  waste  there  still  is  a  tree, 
And  a  bird  in  the  solitude  singing. 

Which  speaks  to  my  spirit  of  thee. 
July  24, 1816. 


EPISTLE  TO  AUGUSTA. 

My  sister!  my  sweet  sister!  if  a  name 

Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  should  be  thine; 
Mountains  and  seas  divide  us,  but  I  claim 

No  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine: 
Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same — 

A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 
There  yet  are  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 
A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

♦* *-i- 


480  DOMESTIC   PIECES. 

The  first  were  nothing— had  I  still  the  last, 

It  were  the  haven  of  my  happiness; 
But  other  claims  and  other  ties  thou  hast, 

And  mine  is  not  the  wish  to  make  them  less. 
A  strange  doom  is  thy  father's  son's,  and  past 

Recalling,  as  it  lies  beyond  redress; 
Reversed  for  him  our  grandsire's  fate  of  yore, — 
He  had  no  rest  at  sea,  nor  I  on  shore. 

If  my  inheritance  of  storms  hath  been 

In  other  elements,  and  on  the  rocks 
Of  perils,  overlook'd  or  unforeseen, 

I  have  sustain'd  my  share  of  worldly  shocks, 
The  fault  was  mine;  nor  do  I  seek  to  screen 

My  errors  with  defensive  paradox; 
I  have  beec  cunning  in  mine  overthrow, 
The  careful  pilot  of  my  proper  woe. 

Mine  were  my  faults,  and  mine  be  their  reward, 
My  whole  life  was  a  contest,  since  the  day 

That  gave  me  being,  gave  me  that  which  marr'd 
The  gift,— a  fate,  or  will,  that  walk'd  astray; 

And  1  at  times  have  found  the  struggle  hard, 
And  thought  of  shaking  off  my  bonds  of  clay: 

But  now  I  fain  would  for  a  time  survive. 

If  but  to  see  what  next  can  well  arrive. 

Kingdoms  and  empires  in  my  little  day 
I  have  outlived,  and  yet  I  am  not  old; 

And  when  I  look  on  this,  the  petty  spray. 

Of  my  own  years  of  trouble,  which  have  roll'd 

Like  a  wild  bay  of  breakers,  melts  away: 
Something— I  know  not  what — does  still  uphold 

A  spirit  of  slight  patience; — not  in  vain, 

Even  for  its  own  sake,  do  we  purchase  pain. 

Perhaps  the  workings  of  defiance  stir 
Within  me,— or  perhaps  a  cold  despair, 

Brought  on  when  ills  habitually  recur, — 
Perhaps  a  kinder  clime,  or  purer  air, 

(For  even  to  this  may  change  of  soul  refer, 
And  with  light  armor  we  may  learn  to  bear,) 

Have  taught  me  a  strange  quiet,  which  was  not 

The  chief  companion  of  a  calmer  lot. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks, 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt, 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks; 
And  even  at  moments  I  could  think  I  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 

Here  are  the  Alpine  landscapes  which  create 
A  fund  for  contemplation; — to  admire 

Is  a  brief  feeling  of  a  trivial  date; 
But  something  worthier  do  such  scenes  Inspire. 


^H- 


DOMESTIC  PIECES.  481 

Here  to  be  lonely  Is  not  desolate, 

For  much  I  view  which  I  could  most  desire, 
And,  above  all,  a  lake  I  can  behold 
Lovelier,  not  dearer,  than  our  own  of  old. 

Oh,  that  thou  wert  but  with  me  I — but  I  grow 

The  fool  of  my  own  wishes,  and  forget 
The  solitude  which  1  have  vaunted  so 

Has  lost  its  praise  in  this  but  one  regret,* 
There  may  be  others  v/hich  I  less  may  show; — 

I  am  not  of  the  plaintive  mood,  and  yet 
I  feel  an  ebb  in  my  philosophy, 
And  the  tide  rising  in  my  alter'd  eye. 

I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  Lake, 
By  the  old  Hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 

Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore: 

Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make, 
Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 

Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  arc 

Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 

The  world  is  all  before  me;  I  but  ask 
Of  Nature  that  with  which  she  will  comply — 

It  is  but  in  her  summer's  sun  to  bask, 
To  mingle  with  the  quiet  of  her  sky. 

To  see  her  gentle  face  without  a  mask, 
And  never  gaze  on  it  with  apathy. 

She  was  my  early  friend,  and  now  shall  be 

My  sister — till  I  look  again  on  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one; 

And  that  I  would  not; — for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun. 

The  earliest — even  the  only  paths  for  me — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learnt  the  crowd  to  shun, 

I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  slept; 
/had  not  sufler'd,  and  thou  hadst  hot  wept. 

With  false  Ambition  what  had  I  to  do? 

Little  with  Love,  and  least  of  all  with  Fame; 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew, 

And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make— a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue; 

Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
But  all  is  over — I  am  one  the  more 
To  baffled  millions  which  have  gone  before. 

And  for  the  future,  this  world's  future  may 
From  me  demand  but  little  of  my  care; 

I  have  outlived  myself  by  many  a  day; 
Having  survived  so  many  things  that  were; 

My  years  have  been  no  slumber,  out  the  prey 
Of  ceaseless  vigils;  for  1  had  the  share 

Of  life  which  might  have  fill'd  a  century, 

Before  its  foui-th  in  time  had  pass'd  me  by. 
U 


4K 


DOMESTIC  PIECES. 

And  for  the  remnant  which  may  be  to  come, 
I  am  content;  and  for  the  past  I  feel 

Not  thankless,— for  within  the  crowded  sum 
Of  struggles,  happiness  at  times  would  steal, 

And  for  the  present,  I  would  not  benumb 
My  feelings  further. — Nor  shall  I  conceal 

That  with  all  this  1  still  can  look  around. 

And  worship  Nature  with  a  thought  profound. 

For  thee,  my  own  sweet  sister,  in  thy  heart 
I  know  myself  secure,  as  thou  in  mine; 

We  were  and  are— I  am,  even  as  thou  art — 
Beings  who  ne'er  each  other  can  resign; 

It  is  the  same,  together  or  apart. 
From  life's  commencement  to  its  slow  decline 

We  are  entwined — let  death  come  slow  or  fast, 

The  tie  which  bound  the  first,  endures  the  lastl 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  THAT  LADY  BYRON  WAS  ILL. 

And  thou  wert  sad— yet  I  was  not  with  thee! 

And  thou  wert  sick,  and  yet  I  was  not  near; 
Methought  that  joy  and  health  alone  could  be 

Where  I  was  not — and  pain  and  sorrow  here. 
And  is  it  thus?— it  is  as  I  foretold, 

And  shall  be  more  so;  for  the  mind  recoils 
Upon  itself,  and  the  wreck' d  heart  lies  cold, 

While  heaviness  collects  the  shatter'd  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 

We  feel  benumb'd,  and  wish  to  be  no  more, 

But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore 
When  all  is  lost,  except  a  little  life. 

I  am  too  well  avenged!— but  'twas  my  right; 

Whate'er  my  sins  might  be,  thou  wert  not  sent 
To  be  the  Nemesis  who  should  requite — 

Nor  did  Heaven  choose  so  near  an  instrument. 
Mercy  is  for  the  merciful: — if  thou 
Hast  been  of  such,  'twill  be  accorded  now. 
Thy  nights  are  banish'd  from  the  realms  of  sleep! — 

Yes!  they  may  flatter  thee,  but  thou  shalt  feel 

A  hollow  agony  which  will  not  heal. 
For  thou  art  pillow'd  on  a  curse  too  deep; 
Thou  hast  sown  in  my  sorrow,  and  must  reap 

The  bitter  harvest  in  a  woe  as  real ! 
I  have  had  many  foes,  but  none  like  thee; 

For  'gainst  the  rest  myself  I  could  defend, 

And  be  avenged,  or  turn  them  into  friend; 
But  thou  in  safe  implacability 

Hadst  naught  to  dread— in  thy  own  weakness  shielded, 
And  in  my  love,  which  hath  but  too  mucli  yielded, 

And  spared,  for  thy  sake,  some  I  should  "not  spare — 
And  thus  upon  the  world — trust  in  thy  truth— 
And  the  wild  fame  of  my  ungoveru'd  youth  — 

On  things  that  were  not,  and  on  things  that  are — 


♦il- 


4K 


_ . — ^ 

DOMESTIC  PIECES.  483 

Even  upon  such  a  basis  hast  thou  built 

A  monument,  whose  cement  hath  been  guiltl 

The  moral  Clytemnestra  of  thy  lord, 

And  hew'd  down,  with  an  unsuspected  sword, 

Fame,  peace,  and  hope — and  all  the  better  life 

Which,  but  for  this  cold  treason  of  my  heart. 
Might  still  have  risen  from  out  the  grave  of  strife, 

And  found  a  nobler  duty  than  to  part. 
But  of  thy  virtues  didst  thou  make  a  vice, 

Trafficking  with  them  in  a  piypose  cold. 

For  present  anger,  and  for  future  gold— 
And  buying  other's  grief  at  any  price. 
And  thus  once  enter'd  into  crooked  ways. 
The  early  truth,  which  was  thy  proper  praise, 
Did  not  still  walk  beside  thee— but  at  times. 
And  with  a  breast  unknowing  its  own  crimes, 
Deceit,  averments  incompatible. 
Equivocations,  and  the  thoughts  which  dwell 

In  Janus-spirits — the  significant  eye 
Which  learns  to  lie  with  silence — the  pretext 
Of  Prudence,  with  advantages  annexed — 
The  acquiescence  in  all  things  which  tend, 
No  matter  how,  to  the  desired  end — 

All  found  a  place  in  thy  philosophy. 
The  means  were  worthy,  and  the  end  is  won — 
I  would  not  do  by  thee  as  thou  hast  done! 
/September,  1816. 


WELL,  THOU  ART  HAPPY. 

Well!  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest— and  'twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot: 

But  let  them  pass — Oh!  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him  if  he  loved  thee  not! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 

But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it, — and  repress'd  my  sighs. 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me, 

Mary,  adieu!  I  must  away: 
While  thou  art  blest  I'll  not  repine; 

But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay; 
My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench 'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side. 
My  heart  in  all — save  hope — the  same. 


*iir 


r 


484  DOMESTIC  PIECES. 

Yet  was  I  calm:  I  knew  the  time 
My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime — 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 
Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there; 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace — 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away!  away!  my  early  dream 
Remembrance  never  must  awake: 

Oh!  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 

November  2,  1816. 


HI- 


f 


THE  VISIO?^  OF  JUDGMENT. 

BY  QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 


SUOOESTED  BY  THE  COMPOSITION  SO  ENTITLED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
OF    "WAT  TYLER." 


'  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment!  yea.  a  Daniel  I 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word." 


m^ 


PREFACE. 

It  hath  been  wisely  said,  that  "one  fool  makes  many,"  and  it 
hath  been  poetically  observed, 

"That  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread."— Pope. 

If  Mr.  Southey  had  not  rushed  in  where  he  had  no  business,  and 
where  he  never  was  before,  and  never  will  be  a^ain,  the  following 
poem  would  not  have  been  written.  It  is  not  impossible  that  it 
may  be  as  good  as  his  own,  seeing  that  it  cannot,  by  any  species  of 
stupidity,  natural  or  acquired,  be  worse.  The  gross  flattery,  the 
dull  impudence,  the  renegado  intolerance  and  impious  cant,  of  the 
poem  by  the  author  of  "  Wat  Tyler,"  are  something  so  stupendous 
as  to  form  the  sublime  of  himself— containing  the  quintessence  of 
his  own  attributes. 

So  much  for  his  poem— a  word  on  his  preface.  In  this  preface  it 
has  pleased  the  magnanimous  Laureate  to  draw  the  picture  of  a 
supposed  "  Satanic  School,"  the  which  he  doth  recommend  to  the 
notice  of  the  legislature;  thereby  adding  to  his  other  laurels  the 
aiubition  of  those  of  an  informer.  If  there  exists  anywhere,  except 
in  his  imagination,  such  a  school,  is  he  not  sufficiently  armed 
against  it  by  his  own  intense  vanity?  The  truth  is,  that  there  are 
certain  writers  whom  Mr.  S.  imagines,  like  Scrub,  to  have  "talked 
of  him;  for  they  laughed  consumedly." 

I  think  I  know  enough  of  most  of  the  writers  to  whom  he  is  sup- 
posed to  allude,  to  assert,  that  they,  in  their  individual  capacities, 
nave  done  more  good,  in  the  charities  of  life,  to  their  fellow-crea- 
tures in  any  one  year,  than  Mr.  Southey  has  done  harm  to  himself 
by  his  absurdities  in  his  whole  life;  and  tins  is  saying  a  great  deal. 
But  I  have  a  few  questions  to  ask.  • 

Istly,  Is  Mr.  Southey  the  author  of  "Wat  Tyler?" 

2dly,  Was  he  not  refused  a  remedy  at  law  by  the  highest  judge 
of  his  beloved  England,  because  it  was  a  blasphemous  and  seditious 
pubUcation? 

^  ^ 


486  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

3dly,  Was  he  not  entitled  by  William  Smith,  in  full  Parliament, 
"a  rancorous  renegado?" 

4thly  Is  he  not  Poet  Laureate,  with  his  own  lines  on  Martin  the 
regicide  staring  him  in  the  face? 

And,  5thly,  Putting  the  four  preceding  items  together,  with  what 
conscience  dare  he  call  the  attention  of  the  laws  to  the  publica- 
tions of  others,  be  they  what  they  raaj-? 

I  say  nothing  of  the  cowardice  of  such  a  proceeding;  its  meanness 
speaks  for  itself;  but  I  wish  to  touch  upon  the  motive,  which  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  that  Mr.  S.  has  been  laughed  at  a  little 
in  some  recent  publications,  as  he  was  of  yore  in  the  "Anti- 
Jacobin  "  by  his  present  patrons.  Hence  all  this  "  skimble-scamble 
stuff"  about  "Satanic,"  and  so  forth.  However,  it  is  worthy  of 
him — qualis  ah  incepto. 

If  there  is  anything  obnoxious  to  the  political  opinions  of  a  por- 
tion of  the  public  m  the  following  poem,  they  may  thank  Mr. 
Southey.  He  might  have  written  hexameters,  as  he  has  written 
everything  else,  for  aught  that  the  writer  cared— had  they  been 
upon  another  subject.  But  to  attempt  to  canonize  a  monarch,  who, 
whatever  were  his  household  virtues,  was  neither  a  successful  nor 
a  patriot  king— inasmuch  as  several  years  of  his  reign  passed  in  war 
with  America  and  Ireland,  to  say  nothing  of  the  aggression  upon 
France,— like  all  other  exaggeration,  necessarily  begets  opposition. 
In  whatever  manner  he  may  be  spoken  of  in  this  new  "Vision,"  his 
jyuhlic  career  will  not  be  more  favorably  transmitted  by  history. 
Of  his  private  virtues  (although  a  httle  expensive  to  the  nation) 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  • 

With  regard  to  the  supernatural  personages  treated  of,  I  can  only 
say  that  I  know  as  much  about  them,  and  (as  an  honest  man)  have 
a  better  right  to  talk  to  them,  than  Robert  Southey.  I  have  also 
treated  them  more  tolerantly.  The  way  in  which  that  poor  insane 
creature,  the  Laureate,  deals  about  his  judgments  in  the  next 
world,  is  like  his  own  judgment  in  this.  If  it  were  not  completely 
ludicrous,  it  would  be  something  worse.  I  don't  think  chat  there  is 
much  more  to  saf^  at  present.  QUEVEDO  REDIVIVUS. 

P.  S.— It  is  possible  that  some  readers  may  object,  in  these  objec- 
tionable times,  to  the  freedom  with  which  saints,  angels,. and  spir- 
itual persons  discourse  in  this  "  Vision."  But,  for  precedents  upon 
such  points,  I  must  refer  them  to  Fielding's  "Joumey  from  this 
World  to  the  next,  "and  to  the  Visions  of  myself,  the  said  Quevedo, 
in  Spanish  or  translated.  The  reader  is  also  requested  to  obser\-e  that 
no  doctrinal  tenets  are  insisted  upon  or  discussed;  that  the  person 
of  the  Deity  is  carefully  withheld  from  sight,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  for  the  Laureate,  who  hath  thought  proper  to  make 
Him  talk,  not  "  like  a  school  divine,"  but  like  the  unscholarlike  Mr. 
Southey.  The  whole  action  passes  on  the  outside  of  Heaven;  and 
Chaucer's  "Wife  of  Bath,"  Pulci's  "Morgante  Maggiore,"  Swift's 
"  Tale  of  a  Tub,"  and  the  other  works  above  referred  to,  are  cases  in 
point  of  the  freedom  with  which  saints,  &c.,  may  be  permitted  to 
converse  in  works  not  intended  to  be  serious.- Q.'R. 

***  Mr.  Southey,  being,  as  he  says,  a  good  Christian  and  vindic- 
tive, threatens,  I  understand,  a  reply  to  this  our  answer.  It  is  to 
be  hoped  tiiat  his  visionary  faculties  will  in  the  meantime  have 
acquired  a  little  more  judgment,  properly  so  called:  otherwise 
he  will  get  himself  into  new  dilemmas.  These  apostate  Jacobins 
furnish  rich  rejoinders.  Let  him  take  a  specimen.  Mr.  S(nithey 
laudeth  grievously  "  one  Mr.  Landor,"  who  cultivates  much  private 
renown  in  the  shape  of  Latin  verses;  and  not  long  ago,  the  Poet 
Laureate  dedicated  to  him,  it  appeareth,  one  of  his  fugitive  lyrics 
upon  the  strength  of  a  poem  calU'd  Gebir.  WHio  could  suppose  that 
in  this  same  Gebir  the  aforesaid  Savage  Iiandor  (for  such  is  hisgrim 
cognomen)  putteth  into  the  infernal  regions  no  less  a  person  than 

* *- 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  487 

the  hero  of  hig  friend  Mr.  Southey's  heaven,— yea,  even  George  the 
Third !  See  also  how  personal  Savage  becometh,  when  he  hath  a 
mind.    The  following  is  his  portrait  of  our  late  gracious  sovereign  : 

(Prince  Gebir  having  descended  into  the  infernal  regions,  the  shades 
of  his  royal  ancestors  are,  at  his  request,  called  up  to  his  view; 
and  he  exclaims  to  his  ghostly  guide): 

*' Aroar,  what  wretch  that  nearest  us?  what  wretch 
Is  that  with  eyebrows  white  and  slanting  brow? 
Listen  !  him  yonder,  who,  bound  down  supine, 
Shrinks  yelling  from  that  sword  there,  engine-hunff ! 
He  too  amongst  my  ancestors?    I  hate 
The  despot,  but  the  dastard  I  despise. 
Was  he  our  countryman?" 

"Alas,  O  king! 
Iberia  bore  him,  but  the  breed  accurst 
Inclement  winds  blew  blighting  from  north-east." 
*'  He  was  a  warrior  then,  nor  fear'd  the  gods?" 
"  Gebir,  he  fear'd  the  demons,  not  the  gods. 
Though  them  indeed  his  daily  face  adored; 
And  was  no  warrior,  yet  the  thousand  lives 
Squandered,  as  stones  to  exercise  a  sling. 
And  the  tame  cruelty  and  cold  caprice— 
Oh,  madness  of  mankind  I  address'd,  adored  I"— 

Gehir,  p.  28. 

I  omit  noticing  some  edifying  Ithjrphallics  of  Savagius,  wishing  to 
keep  the  proper  veil  over  them,  if  his  grave  but  somewhat  indiscreet 
worshipper  will  suffer  it;  but  certainly  these  teachers  of  "great 
moral  lessons"  are  apt  to  be  found  in  strange  company. 


H — ■■ It 


-H( ^ *- 


THE  VISION   OF  JUDGMENT. 


Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate  : 
His  keys  were  rusty,  and  the  lock  was  dull, 

So  little  trouble  had  been  given  of  late; 
Not  that  the  place  by  any  means  was  full, 

But  since  the  Gallic  era  "  eighty-eight," 
The  devils  had  ta'en  a  longer,  stronger  pull 

And  "  a  pull  altogether,"  as  they  say 

At  sea — which  drew  most  souls  another  way. 

II. 

The  angels  all  were  singing  out  of  tune. 
And  hoarse  with  having  little  else  to  do, 

Excepting  to  wind  up  the  sun  and  moon, 
Or  curb  a  runaway  young  star  jor  two, 

Or  wild  colt  of  a  comet,  which  too  soon 
Broke  out  of  bounds  o'er  the  ethereal  blue, 

Splitting  some  planet  with  its  playful  tail, 

As  boats  are  sometimes  by  a  wanton  whalo. 


The  guardian  seraphs  had  retired  on  high, 
Finding  their  charges  past  all  care  below; 

Terrestrial  business  fill'd  nought  in  the  sky 
Save  the  recording  angel's  black  bureau; 

Who  found,  indeed,  the  facts  to  multiply 
With  such  rapidity  of  vice  and  woe, 

That  he  had  stripp'd  off  both  his  wings  in  quills, 

And  yet  was  in  arrear  of  human  ills. 


His  business  so  augmented  of  late  years, 
That  he  was  forced,  against  his  will  no  doubt, 

(Just  like  those  cherubs,  earthly  ministers,) 
For  some  resource  to  turn  himself  about. 

And  claim  the  help  of  his  celestial  peers, 
To  aid  him  ere  he  should  be  quite  worn  out, 

By  the  increased  demand  for  his  remarks; 

six  angels  and  twelve  saints  were  named  his  clerks. 


<i- 


Ht 


4- 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  489 


This  was  a  handsome  board — at  least  for  heaven; 

And  yet  they  had  even  then  enough  to  do, 
So  many  conquerors'  cars  were  daily  driven, 

So  many  kingdoms  fitted  u]^  anew; 
Each  day  too  slew  its  thousands  six  or  seven, 

Till  at  the  crowning  carnage,  Waterloo, 
They  threw  their  pens  down  in  divine  disgust— 
The  page  was  so  besmear' d  with  blood  and  dust. 


This  by  the  way!  'tis  not  mine  to  record 
What  angels  shrink  from:  even  the  very  devil 

On  this  occasion  his  own  work  abhorr'd, 
So  surfeited  with  the  infernal  revel: 

Though  he  himself  had  sharpen' d  every  sword, 
It  almost  quench' d  his  innate  thirst  of  evil. 

(Here  Satan's  sole  good  work  deserves  insertion — 

'Tis,  that  he  has  both  generals  in  reversion.) 


Let 's  skip  a  few  short  years  of  hollow  peace,  ^ 

Which  peopled  earth  no  better,  hell  as  wont, 

And  heaven  none— they  form  the  tyrant's  lease. 
With  nothing  but  new  names  subscribed  upon't: 

'Twill  one  day  finish:  meantime  they  increase, 
"  With  seven  heads  and  ten  horns,"  and  all  in  front, 

Like  Saint  John's  foretold  beastV   but  ours  are  born 

Less  formidable  in  the  head  than  horn. 


In  the  first  year  of  freedom's  second  dawn 
Died  George  the  Third;  although  no  tyrant,  one 

Who  shielded  tyrants,  till  each  sense  withdrawn 
Left  him  nor  mental  nor  external  sun: 

A  better  farmer  ne'er  brush 'd  dew  from  lawn, 
A  worse  king  never  left  a  realm  undone! 

He  died — but  left  his  subjects  still  behind. 

One  half  as  mad— and  t'other  no  less  blind. 


He  died! — his  death  made  no  great  stir  on  earth; 

His  burial  made  some  pomp;  there  was  profusion 
Of  velvet,  gilding,  brass,  and  no  great  dearth 

Of  aught  but  tears — save  those  shed  by  collusion. 
For  these  things  may  be  bought  at  their  true  worth; 

Of  elegy  there  was  the  due  infusion — 
Bought  also;  and  the  torches,  cloaks,  and  banners, 
Heralds,  and  relics  of  old  Gothic  manners, 


Form'd  a  sepulchral  melodrame.     Of  all 

The  fools  who  flock' d  to  swell  or  see  the  show, 
Who  cared  about  the  corpse?    The  funeral 

Made  the  attraction,  and  the  black  the  woe. 

^ _. — m. 


« m^ 

490  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

There  throbb'd  not  there  a  thought  which  pierced  the  pall; 

And  when  the  gorgeous  coffin  was  laid  low, 
It  seera'd  the  mockery  of  hell  to  fold 
The  rottenness  of  eighty  years  in  gold. 

XI. 

So  mix  his  body  with  the  dust!    It  might 

Return  to  what  it  must  far  sooner,  were 
The  natural  compound  left  alone  to  fight 

Its  way  back  into  earth,  and  lire,  and  air; 
But  the  unnatural  balsams  merely  blight 

What  nature  made  him  at  his  birth,  as  bare 
As  the  mere  million's  base  unraummied  clay — 
Yet  all  his  spices  but  prolong  decay. 


He's  dead— and  upper  earth  with  him  has  done; 

He's  buried;  save  the  undcrtakers'bill, 
Or  lapidary  scrawl,  the  world  is  gone 

For  him",  unless  he  left  a  German  will; 
But  Where's  the  proctor  who  will  ask  his  son? 

In  whom  his  qualities  are  reigning  still, 
Except  that  household  virtue,  most  uncommon, 
Of  constancy  to  a  bad,  ugly  woman. 


"  God  save  the  king!"     It  is  a  large  economy 
In  God  to  save  the  like;  but  if  He  will 

Be  saving,  all  the  better;  for  not  one  am  T 
Of  those  who  think  damnation  better  still: 

I  hardly  know  too  if  not  quite  alone  am  I 
In  this  small  hope  of  bettering  future  ill 

By  circumscribing,  with  some  slight  restriction, 

The  eternity  of  hell's  hot  jurisdiction. 


I  know  this  is  unpopular;  I  know 

'Tis  blasphemous;  I  know  one  may  be  damn'd 
For  hoping  no  one  else  may  e'er  be  so; 

I  know  my  catechism;  I  know  we  are  cramm'd 
With  the  best  doctrines  till  we  quite  o'erflow; 

I  know  that  all  save  England's  church  have  shamm'd; 
And  that  the  other  twice  two  hundred  churches 
And  synagogues  have  made  a  damn'd  bad  purchase. 


God  help  us  alll    God  help  mc  too!    I  am, 
God  knows,  as  helpless  as  the  devil  can  wish, 

And  not  a  whit  more  difficult  to  damn, 
Than  is  to  bring  to  land  a  late-hook'd  fish, 

Or  to  the  butcher  to  purvey  the  lamb; 
Not  that  I'm  fit  for  such'n  noble  dish, 

As  one  dsiy  will  be  that  immortal  fry 

Of  almost  everybody  bom  to  die. 


IK 


-^^ 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  491 


Saint  Peter  sat  by  the  celestial  gate, 

And  nodded  o'er  his  keys;  when,  lo!  there  came 
A  wondrous  noise  he  had  not  heard  of  late — 

A  rushing  sound  of  wind,  and  stream„,and  flame; 
In  short,  a  roar  of  things  extremely  great, 

Which  would  have  made  aught  save  a  saint  exclaim; 
But  he,  with  first  a  start  and  then  a  wink. 
Said,  "  There's  another  star  gone  out,  I  think!" 


But  ere  he  could  return  to  his  repose, 
A  cherub  flapp'd  his  right  wing  o'er  his  eyes— 

At  which  Saint  Peter  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  nose: 
"Saint  porter,"  said  the  Angel,  "prithee  rise!" 

Waving  a  goodly  wing,  which  glow'd,  as  glows 
An  earthly  peacock^s  tail,  with  heavenly  dyes; 

To  which  the  Saint  replied,  "  Well,  what's  the  matter? 

Is  Lucifer  come  back  with  all  this  clatter?" 


"No,"  quoth  the  cherub;  "  George  the  Third  is  dead." 
"  And  who  is  George  the  Third?"  replied  the  apostle. 

"  WTiat  George?  wJiat  Third P'     "The  king  of  England,' 
said 
The  angel.     "  Well!  he  won't  find  kings  to  jostle 

Him  on  his  way;  but  does  he  wear  his  head? 
Because  the  last  we  saw  here  had  a  tussle. 

And  ne'er  would  have  got  into  heaven's  good  graces, 

Had  he  not  flung  his  head  in  all  our  faces. 


"  He  was,  if  I  remember,  king  of  France; 

That  head  of  his,  which  could  not  keep  a  crown 
On  earth,  yet  ventured  in  my  face  to  advance 

A  claim  to  those  of  martyrs — like  my  own: 
If  I  had  had  my  sword,  as  I  had  once. 

When  I  cut  ears  off,  I  had  cut  him  down; 
But  having  but  my  keys,  and  not  ray  brand, 
I  only  knock'd  his  head  from  out  his  hand. 


"  And  then  he  set  up  such  a  headless  howl. 
That  all  the  saints  came  out  and  took  him  in; 

And  there  he  sits  by  Saint  Paul,  cheek  by  jowl; 
That  fellow  Paul — ^the  parvenu!    The  skin 

Of  Saint  Bartholomew,  which  makes  his  cowl 
In  heaven,  and  upon  earth  redeem'd  his  sin, 

So  as  to  make  a  martyr,  never  sped 

Better  than  did  this  weak  and  wooden  head. 


"  But  had  it  come  up  here  upon  its  shoulders. 
There  would  have  been  a  different  tale  to  tell; 

The  fellow-feeling  in  the  saints  beholders 
Seems  to  have  acted  on  them  like  a  spell; 


^h 


492  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

And  so  this  very  foolish  head  heaven  solders 

Back  on  its  trunk:  it  may  be  very  well, 
And  seems  the  custom  here  to  overthrow 
Whatever  has  been  wisely  done  below." 

XXII. 

The  angel  an swer'd:  "Peter:  do  not  pout: 
The  king  who  comes  has  head  and  all  entire, 

And  never  knew  much  what  it  was  about — 
He  did  as  doth  the  puppet— by  its  wire, 

And  wiU  be  judged  like  all  the  rest,  no  doubt: 
My  business  and  your  own  is  not  to  inquire 

Into  such  matters,  but  to  mind  our  cue — 

Which  is  to  act  as  we  are  bid  to  do." 


While  thus  they  spake,  the  angelic  caravan. 

Arriving  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 
Cleaving  the  fields  of  space,  as  doth  the  swan 

Some  silver  stream  (say  Ganges,  Nile,  or  Inde, 
Or  Thames,  or  Tweed),  and  'midst  them  an  old  man 

With  an  old  soul,  and  both  extremely  blind. 
Halted  before  the  gate,  and  in  his  shroud 
Seated  their  fellow-traveller  on  a  cloud. 

XXIV. 

But  brining  up  the  rear  of  this  bright  host, 

A  Spirit  of  a  different  aspect  waved 
His  wings,  like  thunder-clouds  above  some  coast 

Whose  barren  beach  with  frequent  wrecks  is  paved; 
His  brow  was  like  the  deep  when  tempest-toss'd; 

Fierce  and  unfathomable  thoughts  engraved 
Eternal  wrath  on  his  immortal  face, 
And  wTiere  he  gazed  a  gloom  pervaded  space. 

XXV. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  gazed  upon  the  gate 
Ne'er  to  be  enter'd  more  by  him  or  Sin, 

With  such  a  glance  of  supernatural  hate. 
As  made  Saint  Peter  wish  himself  within; 

He  pattcr'd  with  his  keys  at  a  great  rate, 
And  sweated  through  his  apostolic  skin: 

Of  course  his  perspiration  was  but  ichor, 

Or  some  such  other  spiritual  liquor. 


The  very  cherubs  huddled  all  together, 
Like  birds  when  soars  the  falcon;  and  they  felt 

A  tingling  to  the  tip  of  every  feather, 
And  form'd  a  circle  like  Orion's  belt 

Around  their  poor  old  charge;  who  scarce  knew  whither 
His  guards  had  led  him,  though  they  gently  dealt 

With  royal  manes  (for  by  many  stories. 

And  true,  we  learn  the  angels  are  all  Tories). 


il- 


^1- 


TIIE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  492 

XXVII. 

As  things  were  in  this  posture,  the  gate  flew 

Asunder,  aud  the  flashing  of  its  hinges 
Flung  over  space  an  universal  hue 

Of  many-color' d  flame,  until  its  tinges 
Reach'd  even  our  speck  of  earth,  and  made  a  new 

Aurora  borealis  spread  its  fringes 
O'er  the  North  Pole;  the  same  seen,  when  ice-bound, 
By  Captain  Parry's  crew,  in  ''  Melville's  Sound." 


And  from  the  gate  thrown  open  issued  beaming 
A  beautiful  and  mighty  Thing  of  Light, 

Radiant  with  glory,  like  a  banner  streaming 
Victorious  from  some  world-o'erthrowing  fight: 

My  poor  comparisons  must  needs  be  teeming 
With  earthly  likenesses,  for  here  the  night 

Of  clay  obscures  our  best  conceptions,  saving 

Johanna  Southcote,  or  Bob  Southey  raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas  the  archangel  Michael:  all  men  know 
The  make  of  angels  and  archangels,  since 

There's  scarce  a  scribbler  has  not  one  to  show, 
From  the  fiends'  leader  to  the  angels'  prince. 

There  also  are  some  altar-pieces,  though 
I  really  can't  say  that  they  much  evince 

One's  inner  notions  of  immortal  spirits; 

But  let  the.connoisseurs  explain  their  merits. 


Michael  flew  forth  in  glory  and  in  good, 
A  goodly  work  of  liim  from  whom  all  glory 

And  good  arise;  the  portal  past — he  stood; 
Before  him  the  young  cherubs  and  saints  hoary- 

(I  say  young,  begging  to  be  understood 
By  looks,  not  years,  and  should  be  very  sorry 

To  state,  they  were  not  older  than  Saint  Peter, 

But  merely  that  they  seem'd  a  little  sweeter.) 

XXXI. 

The  cherubs  and  the  saints  bow'd  down  before 

That  archangelic  hierareh,  the  first 
Of  essences  angelical,  who  wore 

The  aspect  of  a  god;  but  this  ne'er  nursed 
Pride  in  his  heavenly  bosom,  in  whose  core 

No  thought,  save  "for  his  Maker's  service,  durst 
Intrude,  however  glorified  and  high; 
He  knew  him  but  the  viceroy  of  the  sky. 


He  and  the  sombre  silent  Spirit  met — 
They  knew  each  other  both  for  good  and  ill; 

Such  was  their  power,  that  neither  could  forget 
His  former  friend  and  future  foe;  but  still 


-* a- 

494  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

There  was  a  high,  immortal,  proud  regret 

In  cither's  eye,  as  if  'twere  less  their  will 
Than  destiny  to  make  the  eternal  years 
Their  date  of  war,  and  their  "  champ  clos  "  the  spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But  here  they  were  in  neutral  space:  we  know 

From  Job,  that  Satan  hath  the  power  to  pay 
A  heavenly  visit  thrice  a  year  or  so; 

And  that  "  the  sons  of  God,"  like  those  of  clay, 
Must  keep  him  company;  and  we  might  show 

From  the  same  book,  in  how  polite  a  way 
The  dialogue  is  held  between  the  Powers 
Of  Good  and  Evil — ^but  'twould  take  up  hours. 

XXXIV. 

And  this  is  not  a  theologic  tract. 

To  prove  with  Hebrew  and  with  Arabic, 
If  Job  be  allegory  or  a  fact. 

But  a  true  narrative;  and  thus  I  pick  . 

From  out  the  whole  but  such  and  such  an  act. 

As  sets  aside  the  slightest  thought  of  trick. 
'Tis  every  tittle  true,  beyond  suspicion, 
And  accurate  as  any  other  vision. 

XXXV. 

The  spirits  were  in  neutral  space,  before 
The  gate  of  heaven;  like  Eastern  thresholds  is 

The  place  where  Death's  grand  cause  is  argued  o'er, 
And  souls  dispatch'd  to  that  world  or  to  this; 

And  therefore  Michael  and  the  other  wofe 
A  civil  aJfepect:  though  they  did  not  kiss, 

Yet  still  between  his  Darkness  and  his  Brightness 

There  pass'd  a  mutual  glance  of  great  politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The  Archangel  bow'd,  not  like  a  modem  beau, 

But  with  a  graceful  Oriental  bend. 
Pressing  one  radiant  arm  just  where  below 

The  heart  in  good  men  is  supposed  to  tend. 
He  turu'd  as  to  an  equal,  not  too  low. 

But  kindly;  Satan  met  his  ancient  friend 
With  more  hauteur,  as  might  an  old  Castiliau 
Poor  noble  meet  a  mushroom  rich  civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He  merely  bent  his  diabolic  brow 

An  instant;  and  then  raising  it,  he  stood 
In  act  to  assert  his  right  or  wrong,  and  show 

Cause  why  King  George  by  no  means  could  or  should 
Make  cut  a  case  to  be  exempt  from  woe 

Eternal,  more  than  other  kings,  endued 
With  better  sense  and  hearts,  whom  history  mentions 
Who  long  have  **  paved  hell  with  their  good  intentions."* 

*  "  No  saint  in  the  course  of  his  religious  warfare  was  more  sensi- 
ble of  the  unhappy  failure  of  pious  resolves  than  Dr.  Johnson:  he 
said  one  day,  talking  to  an  acquaintance  on  this  subject,  '  Sir,  hell  is 
paved  with  good  intentions.'  ''^ 

*♦ 


ft- 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  495 


Michael  began:  "  What  wouldst  thou  with  this  man, 
Now  dead,  and  brought  before  the  Lord?    What  ill 

Hath  he  wrought  since  his  mortal  race  began, 
That  thou  canst  claim  him?    Speak!  and  do  thy  will, 

If  it  be  just:  if  in  this  earthly  span 
He  hath  been  greatly  failing  to  fulfil 

His  duties  as  a  king  and  mortal,  say. 

And  he  is  thine;  if  not,  let  him  have  way." 


"  Michael!"  replied  the  Prince  of  Air,  "  even  here, 
Before  the  gate  of  Him  thou  servest,  must 

I  claim  my  subject:  and  will  make  appear 
That  as  he  was  my  worshipper  in  dust. 

So  shall  he  be  in  spirit,  although  dear 
To  thee  and  thine,  because  nor  wine  nor  lust 

Were  of  his  weaknesses,  yet  on  the  throne 

He  reign'd  o'er  millions  to  serve  me  alone. 


**  Look  to  our  earth,  or  rather  mine:  it  was. 
Once,  more  thy  Master's:    but  I  triumph  not 

In  this  poor  planet's  conquest;  nor,  alas! 
Need  He  thou  servest  envy  me  my  lot: 

With  all  the  myriads  of  bright  worlds  which  pass 
In  worship  round  Hira,  He  may  have  forgot 

Yon  weak  creation  of  such  paltry  things: 

I  think  few  worth  damnation  save  then*  kings — 


"  And  these  but  as  a  kind  of  quit-rent,  to 
Assert  my  right  as  lord;  and  even  had 

I  such  an  inclination,  'twere  (as  you 
Well  know)  superfluous;  they  are  grown  so  bad. 

That  hell  has  nothing  better  left  to  do 
Than  leave  them  to  themselves!  so  much  more  mad 

And  evil  by  their  own  internal  curse. 


"  Look  to  the  earth,  I  said,  and  say  again: 

When  this  old,  blind,  mad,  helpless,  weak,  poor  worm 
Began  in  youth's  first  bloom  and  flush  to  reign. 

The  world  and  he  both  wore  a  different  form, 
And  much  of  earth  and  all  the  watery  plain 

Of  ocean  call'd  him  king:  through  many  a  storm 
His  isles  had  floated  on  the  abyss  of  time; 
For  the  rough  virtues  chose  them  for  their  clime. 


"  He  came  to  his  sceptre  young;  he  leaves  it  old: 
Look  to  the  state  in  which  he  found  his  realm, 

And  left  it;  and  his  annals  too  behold, 
How  to  a  minion  first  he  gave  the  helm  ; 

♦« — ^- it 


-t 


496  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

How  grew  upon  his  heart  a  thirst  for  gold. 

The  beggar's  vice,  whieli  can  but  overwnelm 
The  meanest  hearts!  and  for  the  rest,  but  glance 
Thine  eye  along  America  and  France. 


"  'Tis  true,  he  was  a  fool  from  first  to  last 
(I  have  the  workmen  safe);  but  as  a  tool 

So  let  him  be  consumed.    From  out  the  past 
Of  ages,  since  mankind  have  known  the  rule 

Of  monarch's — from  the  bloody  rolls  amass'd 
Of  sin  and  slaughter — from  the  Ca3sar8'  school 

Take  the  worst  pupil;  and  produce  a  reign 

More  drench'd  with  gore,  more  cumber'd  with  the  slain. 


"  He  ever  warr'd  with  freedom  and  the  free: 
Nations  as  men,  home  subjects,  foreign  foes, 

So  that  they  utter'd  the  word  '  Liberty!** 
Found  George  the  Third  their  first  opponent.    Whose 

History  was  ever  staiu'd  as  his  will  be 
With  national  and  individual  woes? 

I  grant  his  household  abstinence;  I  grant 

His  neutral  virtues,  which  most  monarchs  want; 

XLVI. 

"  I  know  he  was  a  constant  consort;  o-wti 
He  was  a  decent  sire,  and  middling  lord. 

All  this  is  much,  and  most  upon  a  throne; 
As  temperance,  if  at  Apicius'  board, 

Is  more  than  at  an  anchorite's  supper  sho^\Ti. 
I  grant  him  all  the  kindest  can  accord; 

And  this  was  well  for  him,  but  not  for  those 

Millions  who  found  him  what  oppression  chose. 

XLVII, 

"  The  New  World  shook  him  off;  the  Old  yet  groans 
Beneath  what  he  and  his  prepared,  if  not 

Completed:  he  leaves  heirs  on  many  thrones 
To  all  his  vices,  without  what  begot 

Compassion  for  him — his  tame  virtues;  drones 
Who  sleep,  or  despots  who  have  now  forgot 

A  lesson  which  shall  be  retaught  them,  wake 

Upon  the  thrones  of  earth;  but  let  them  quake! 


*'Five  millions  of  the  primitive,  who  hold 
The  faith  which  makes  ye  great  on  earth,  implored 

Apart  of  that  vast  ah  they  held  of  old, — 
Freedom  to  worship — not  alone  your  Lord, 

Michael,  but  you,  and  you.  Saint  I*eter!    Cold 
Must  be  your  souls,  if  you  have  not  abhorr'd 

The  foe  to  "Catholic  participation 

In  all  the  license  of  a  Christian  nation. 

♦* ** 


4 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  497 


"True!  he  allow'd  them  to  pray  God:  but  as 
A  consequence  of  prayer,  refused  the  law 

Which  would  have  placed  them  upon  the  sarrfe  base 
With  those  who  did  not  hold  the  saints  in  awe." 

But  here  Saint  Peter  started  from  his  place, 
And  cried,  "  You  may  the  prisoner  withdraw; 

Ere  heaven  shall  ope  her  portals  to  this  Guelph, 

While  I  am  guard,  may  I  be  damn'd  myself  I 


"  Sooner  will  I  with  Cerberus  exchanj^e 

My  office  (and  his  is  no  sinecure) 
Than  see  this  royal  Bedlam  bigot  range 

The  azure  fields  of  heaven,  of  that  be  sure!" 
"  Saint!"  replied  Satan,  "  you  do  well  to  avenge 

The  wrongs  he  made  your  satellites  endure^ 
And  if  to  this  exchange  you  should  be  given, 
I'll  try  to  coax  our  Cerberus  up  to  heaven." 

LI. 

Here  Michael  interposed:  "  Good  saint!  and  devil! 

Pray,  not  so  fast;  you  both  outrun  discretion. 
Saint  Peter!  you  were  wont  to  be  more  civil: 

Satan!  excuse  this  warmth  of  his  expression, 
And  condescension  to  the  vulgar's  level: 

Even  saints  sometimes  forget  themselves  in  session. 
Have  you  got  more  to  say?" — "  No." — "  If  you  please 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  your  witnesses." 

LII. 

Then  Satan  tum'd  and  wav'd  his  swarthy  hand, 
Which  stirr'd  with  its  electric  qualities 

Clouds  farther  off  than  we  can  understand, 
Although  we  find  him  sometimes  in  our  skies; 

Infernal  thunder  shook  both  sea  and  land 
In  all  the  planets,  and  hell's  batteries 

Let  off  the  artillery,  which  Milton  mentions 

As  one  of  Satan's  most  sublime  inventions. 


This  was  a  signal  unto  such  damn'd  souls 
As  have  the  privilege  of  their  damnation 

Extended  far  beyond  the  mere  controls 
Of  worlds  past,  present,  or  to  come;  no  station 

Is  theirs  particularly  in  the  rolls 
Of  hell  assign'd;  but  where  their  inclination 

Or  business  carries  them  in  search  of  game. 

They  may  range  freely— being  damn'd  the  same. 

LIV. 

They  are  proud  of  this — as  very  well  they  may, 
It  being  a  sort  of  knighthood,  or  gilt  key 

Stuck  in  their  loins;  or  like  to  an  entre 
Up  the  back  stairs,  or  such  freemasonry. 


f 


u 


498  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

I  borrow  my  comparisons  from  clay, 

Being  clay  myself.    Let  not  those  spirits  be 
Offended  with  such  base  low  likenesses; 
We  know  their  posts  are  nobler  far  than  these. 


When  the  great  signal  ran  from  heaven  to  hell — 
About  ten  million  times  the  distance  reckon'd 

From  our  sun  to  its  earth,  as  we  can  tell 
How  much  time  it  takes  up,  even  to  a  second, 

For  every  ray  that  travels  to  dispel 
The  fogs  of  London,  through  which,  dimly  beacon'd 

The  weathercocks  are  gilt  some  thrice  a  year, 

If  that  the  summer  is  not  too  severe. 


I  say  that  I  can  tell — 'twas  half  a  minute: 
I  know  the  Bolar  beams  take  up  more  time 

Ere,  pack'd  up  for  their  journey,  they  begin  it; 
But  then  their  telegraph  is  less  sublime, 

And  if  they  ran  a  race^  they  would  not  win  it 
'Gainst  Satan's  couriers  bound  for  their  own  clime. 

The  sun  takes  up  some  years  for  every  ray 

To  reach  its  goal— the  devil  not  half  a  day. 


Upon  the  verge  of  space,  about  the  size 

Of  half-a-crown,  a  little  speck  appear' d 
(I've  seen  a  something  like  it  in  the  skies 

In  the  JEgean,  ere  a  squall);  it  near'd, 
And,  growing  bigger,  took  another  guise; 

Like  an  aerial  ship,  it  tack'd  and  steer'd, 
Or  was  steer'd  (I  am  doubtful  of  the  grammar 
Of  the  last  phrase,  which  makes  the  stanza  stammer; — 

LVIII. 

But  take  your  choice);  and  then  it  grew  a  cloud; 

And  so  it  was — a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
But  such  a  cloud!    No  land  e'er  saw  a  crowd 

Of  locusts  numerous  as  the  heavens  saw  these; 
They  shadow'd  with  their  myriads  space;  their  loud 

And  varied  cries  were  like  those  of  wild  geese 
(If  nations  may  be  liken'd  to  a  goose), 
And  realized  the  phrase  of  "  hell  broke  loose." 

LIX. 

Here  crash' d  a  sturdy  oath  of  stout  John  Bull, 
Who  damned  away  his  eyes  as  heretofore: 

There  Paddy  brogued  "By  Jasus!" — "What's  your  wull?" 
The  temperate  Scot  exclaim'd:  the  French  ghost  swore 

In  certain  terms  I  shan't  translate  in  full, 
As  the  first  coachman  will;  and  'midst  the  war, 

The  voice  of  Jonathan  was  heard  to  express, 

"  Our  president  is  going  to  war,  I  guess." 


1 


+ 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  499 


Besides,  there  were  the  Spaniard,  Dutch,  and  Dane; 

In  short,  an  universal  shoal  of  shades, 
From  Otaheite's  isle  to  Salisbury  Plain, 

Of  all  climes  and  professions,  years  and  trades, 
Ready  to  swear  against  the  good  king's  reign, 

Bitter  as  clubs  in  cards  are  against  spades  : 
All  summon'd  by  this  grand  *'  subpoena,"  to 
Try  if  kings  mayn't  be  damn'd  like  me  or  you. 


When  Michael  saw  this  host,  he  first  grew  pale, 
As  angels  can;  next,  like  Italian  twilight, 

He  turnM  all  colors — as  a  peacock's  tail,     '" 
Or  sunset  streaming  through  a  Gothic  skylight 

In  some  old  abbey,  or  a  trout  not  stale, 

Or  distant  lightning  on  the  horizon  hy  night. 

Or  a  fresh  rainbow,  or  a  grand  review 

Of  thirty  regiments  in  red,  green,  and  blue. 

LXII. 

Then  he  address'd  himself  to  Satan:  "  Why, 
My  good  old  friend— for  such  I  deem  you,  though 

Our  different  parties  make  us  fight  so  shy, 
I  ne'er  mistake  you  for  a.  personal  foe; 

Our  difference  is  political,  and  I 
Trust  that,  whatever  may  occur  below, 

You  know  my  great  respect  for  you:  and  this 

Makes  me  regret  whate'er  you  do  amiss — 


"  Why,  my  dear  Lucifer,  would  you  abuse 

My  call  for  witnesses  V    I  did  not  mean 
That  you  should  half  of  earth  and  hell  produce; 

'Tis  even  superfluous,  since  two  honest,  clean, 
True  testimonies  are  enough:  we  lose 

Our  time,  nay,  our  eternity,  between 
The  accusation  and  defence:  if  we 
Hear  both,  'tw"   stretch  our  immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan  replied:  "  To  me  the  matter  is 

Indiiferent,  in  a  personal  point  of  view: 
I  can  have  fifty  better  souls  than  this 

With  far  less  trouble  than  we  have  gone  through 
Already;  and  I  merely  argued  his 

Late  Majesty  of  Britain's  case  with  you 
Upon  a  point  of  form:  you  may  dispose 
Of  him;  I've  kings  enough  below,  God  knows !" 

LXV. 

Thus  spoke  the  Demon  (late  call'd  "  multifaced" 
By  multo-scribbling  Southey).     "  Then  we'll  call 

One  or  two  persons  of  the  myraids  placed  I 

Around  our  congress,  and  dispense  with  all  I 

f— — — - — r 


^h 


* 


500  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

The  rest,"  quoth  Michael:  "  Who  may  be  so  graced 

As  to  speak  first  V  there's  choice  enough — who  shall 
It  be  ?■'    Then  Satan  answer'd,  "  There  are  many; 
But  you  may  choose  Jack  Wilkes  as  well  as  any." 


A  merry,  cock-eyed,  curious-looking  sprite 
Upon  the  instant  started  from  the  throng, 

Dress' d  in  a  fashion  now  forgotten  (juite; 
For  all  the  fashions  of  the  flesh  stick  long 

By  people  in  the  next  world;  where  unite 
All  the  costumes  since  Adam's,  right  or  wrong, 

From  Eve's  fig-leaf  down  to  the  petticoat, 

Almost  as  scanty,  of  days  less  remote. 

LXVII. 

The  spirit  look'd  around  upon  the  crowds 
Assembled,  and  exclaim'd:  "My  friends  of  all 

The  spheres,  we  shall  catch  cold  amongst  these  clouds: 
So  let's  to  business:  why  this  general  call  ? 

If  those  are  freeholders  I  see  in  shrouds. 
And  'tis  for  an  election  that  they  bawl. 

Behold  a  candidate  with  untum'd  coat ! 

Saint  Peter  may  I  count  upon  your  vote  ?" 


"  Sir,"  replied  Michael,  "  You  mistake;  these  things 

Are  of  a  former  life,  and  what  we  do 
Above  is  more  august;  to  judge  of  kings 

Is  the  tribunal  met:  so  now  you  know." 
"  Then  I  presume  those  gentlemen  with  wings," 

Said  Wilkes,  "  are  cherubs:  and  that  soul  below 
Looks  much  like  George  the  Third,  but  to  my  mind 
A  good  deal  older — Bless  me  1  is  he  blind?" 


"  He  is  what  you  behold  him,  and  his  doom 
Depends  upon  his  deeds,"  the  Angel  said. 

"  If  you  have  aught  to  arraign  in  him,  the  tomb 
Gives  license  to  the  humblest  beggar's  head 

To  hft  itself  against  the  loftiest."—^'  Some," 
Said  Wilkes,  "  don't  wait  to  see  them  laid  in  lead 

For  such  a  liberty— and  I,  for  one. 

Have  told  them  what  I  thought  beneath  the  sim. 


*ih 


"Above  the  sun  repeat,  then,  what  thou  hast 
To  urge  against  him,"  said  the  Archangel.    * 

Replied  the  spirit,  "  since  old  scores  are  past, 
Must  I  turn  evidence?    In  faith,  not  I. 

Besides,  I  beat  him  hollow  at  the  last, 
Witli  all  his  Lords  and  Commons:  in  the  sky 

I  don't  like  ripping  up  old  stories,  since 

His  conduct  was  but  natural  in  a  prince. 


Why," 


J^ 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


-!K 


501 


"  Foolish,  no  doubt,  and  wicked,  to  oppress 
A  poor  unlucky  devil  without  a  shilling; 

But  then  I  blame  the  man  himself  much  less 
Than  Bute  and  Grafton,  and  shall  be  unwilling 

To  see  him  punish 'd  here  for  their  excess. 
Since  they  were  both  damn'd  long  ago,  and  still  in 

Their  place  below:  for  me,  I  have  forgiven, 

And  vote  his  '  habeas  corpus '  into  heaven." 


"Wilkes,"  said  the  Devil,  "I  understand  all  this; 

You  tum'd  to  half  a  courtier  ere  you  died, 
And  seem  to  think  it  would  not  be  amiss 

To  grow  a  whole  one  on  the  other  side 
Of  CJharon's  ferry;  you  forget  that  Ms 

Reign  is  concluded;  whatsoe'er  betide. 
He  won't  be  sovereign  more;  you've  lost  your  labor, 
For  at  the  best  he  will  be  but  your  neighbor. 


"  However,  I  knew  what  to  think  of  it, 
When  I  beheld  you  in  your  jesting  way, 

Flitting  and  whispering  round  about  the  spit 
Where  Belial,  upon  duty  for  the  day, 

With  Fox's  lard  was  basting  William  Pitt, 
His  pupil;  I  knew  what  to  think,  I  say: 

That  fellow  even  in  hell  breeds  further  ills; 

I'll  have  him  gagged — 'twas  one  of  his  own  bills. 

LXXIV. 

*'  Call  Junius!"    From  the  crowd  a  shadow  stalk' d, 
And  at  the  name  there  was  a  general  squeeze, 

So  that  the  very  ghosts  no  longer  walk'd 
In  comfort,  at  their  own  aerial  ease. 

But  were  all  ramm'd  and  jamm'd  (but  to  be  balk'd, 
As  we  shall  see),  and  jostled  hands  and  knees, 

Like  wind  compress'd  and  pent  within  a  bladder, 

Or  like  a  human  colic,  which  is  sadder. 


The  shadow  came— a  tall,  thin,  gray-hair'd  figure, 
That  look'd  as  it  had  been  a  shade  on  earth; 

Quick  in  its  motions,  with  an  air  of  vigor. 
But  nought  to  mark  its  breeding  or  its  birth: 

Now  it  wax'd  little,  then  again  grew  bigger, 
With  now  an  air  of  gloom,  or  savage  mirth; 

But  as  you  gazed  upon  its  features,  they 

Changed  every  instant— to  w?icU,  none  could  say. 


The  more  intently  the  ghosts  gazed,  the  less 
Could  they  distinguish  whose  the  features  were; 

The  Devil  himself  seera'd  puzzled  even  to  guess; 
They  varied  like  a  dream— now  here,  now  there; 


^t 


4t- 


502  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

And  several  people  swore,  from  out  the  press, 

They  knew  him  perfectly:  and  one  could  swear 
He  was  his  father:  upon  which,  another 
Was  sure  he  was  his  mother's  cousin's  brother: 

LXXVII. 

Another,  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  knight, 

An  orator,  a  lawyer,  or  a  priest, 
A  nabob,  a  man-midwife:  but  the  wight 

Mysterious  changed  his  countenance  at  least 
As  oft  as  they  their  minds:  though  in  full  sight 

He  stood,  the  puzzle  only  was  increased; 
The  man  was  a  phantasmagoria  in 
Himself; — he  was  so  volatile  and  thin. 


The  moment  that  you  had  pronounced  him  mie, 
Presto!  his  face  changed,  and  he  was  another; 

And  when  that  change  was  hardly  well  put  on, 
It  varied,  till  I  don't  think  his  own  mother 

(If  that  he  had  a  mother)  would  her  son 
Have  known,  he  shifted  so  from  one  to  t'other; 

Till  guessing  from  a  pleasure  grew  a  task, 

At  this  epistolary  "  Iron  Mask." 


For  sometimes  he  like  Cerberus  would  seem — 
"  Three  gentlemen  at  once"  (as  sagely  says 

Good  Mrs.  Malaprop);  then  you  might  deem 
That  he  was  not  even  one ,  now  many  rays 

Were  flashing  round  him:  and  now  a  thick  steam 
Hid  him  from  sight— like  fogs  on  London  days: 

Now  Burke,  now  Tooke,  he  grew  to  people's  fancies, 

And  certes  often  like  Sir  Philip  Francis. 

I/XXX. 

I've  an  hypothesis — 'tis  quite  my  own; 

I  never  let  it  out  till  now,  for  fear 
Of  doing  people  harm  about  the  throne, 

And  injuring  some  minister  or  peer, 
On  whom  the  stigma  might  perhaps  be  blown: 

It  is — my  gentle  public,  lend  thine  ear! 
'Tis  that  what  Jumus  we  are  wont  to  call 
Was  really,  truly,  nobody  at  all. 


I  don't  see  wherefore  letters  should  not  be 
Written  without  hands,  since  we  daily  view 

Them  written  without  heads;  and  books,  we  see, 
Are  fiJl'd  as  well  without  the  latter  too: 

And  really  till  we  fix  on  somebody 
For  certam  sure  to  claim  them  as  his  due. 

Their  author,  like  the  Niger's  mouth,  will  bother 

The  world  to  say  if  there  be  mouth  or  author. 


*ih 


■ii- 


THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.  503 


"And  who  and  what  art  thou?"  the  Archangel  said. 

"For  that  you  may  consult  my  title-page,'' 
Replied  this  mighty  shadow  of  a  shade: 

"If  I  have  kept  my  secret  half  an  age, 
I  scarce  shall  tell  it  now."     "  Canst  thou  upbraid," 

Continued  Michael,  "George  Rex,  or  allege 
Aught  further?"    Junius  answer'd,  "  You  had  better 
First  ask  him  for  his  answer  to  my  letter: 


"  My  charges  upon  record  will  outlast 
The  brass  of  both  his  epitaph  and  tomb." 

"Repent'st  thou  not,"  said  Michael,  "  of  some  past 
Exaggeration?— something  which  may  doom 

Thyself  if  false,  as  him  if  true?    Thou  wast 
Too  bitter— is  it  not  so?— in  thy  gloom 

Of  passion?" — "Passion!"  cried  the  phantom  dim, 

"  I  loved  my  country,  and  I  hated  him. 

LXXXIV.  • 

"What  I  have  written,  I  have  written;  let 
The  rest  be  on  his  head  or  mine!"    So  spoke 

Old  "  Nominus  Umbra;"  and  while  speaking  yet. 
Away  he  melted  in  celestial  smoke. 

Then  Satan  said  to  Michael,  "Don't  forget 
To  call  George  Washington,  and  John  Home  Tooke, 

And  Franklin;'' — but  at  this  time  there  was  heard 

A  cry  for  room,  though  not  a  phantom  stirr'd. 


At  length  with  jostling,  elbowing,  and  the  aid 

Or  cherubim  appointed  to  that  post, 
The  devil  Asmodeus  to  the  circle  made 

His  way,  and  look'd  as  if  his  journey  cost 
Some  trouble.    When  his  burden  down  he  laid, 

"  What 's  this?"  cried  Michael;  "  why,  'tis  not  a  ghost!' 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  the  incubus;  "  but  he 
Shall  be  one,  ii  you  leave  the  afEair  to  me. 

LXXXVI. 

"  Confound  the  renegado!  I  have  sprain'd 
My  left  wing,  he  's  so  heavy;  one  would  think 

Some  of  his  works  about  his  neck  were  chain'd. 
But  to  the  point:  while  hovering  o'er  the  brink 

Of  Skiddaw  (where  as  usual  it  still  rain'd), 
I  saw  a  taper,  far  below  me,  wink, 

And  stooping,  caught  this  fellow  at  a  libel — 

No  less  on  history  than  the  Holy  Bible. 


"The  former  is  the  devil's  scripture,  and 
The  latter  yours,  good  Michael;  so  the  affair 

Belongs  to  all  of  us,  you  understand. 
I  enatch'd  him  up  just  as  you  see  him  there, 


*iir 


^ 

504  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

And  brought  hira  off  for  sentence  out  of  hand: 

I've  scarcely  been  ten  minutes  in  the  air — 
At  least  a  quarter  it  can  hardlj'  be: 
I  dare  say  that  his  wife  is  still  at  tea." 

LXXXVIII. 

Here  Satan  said:  "1  know  this  man  of  old, 
And  have  expected  him  for  some  time  here; 

A  sillier  fellow  you  will  scarce  behold, 
Or  more  conceited  in  his  petty  sphere: 

But  surely  it  was  not  worth  while  to  fold 
Such  trash  below  your  wing,  Asmodeus  dear: 

We  had  the  poor  wretch  safe  (without  being  bored 

With  carriage)  coming  of  his  own  accord. 

LXXXIX. 

"But  since  he  's  here,  let 's  see  what  he  has  done." 

"Done!"  cried  Asmodeus,  "he  anticipates 
The  very  business  you  are  now  upon. 

And  scribbles  as  if  head  clerk  to  the  Fates. 
Who  knows  to  whaf  his  ribaldry  may  run. 

When  such  an  ass  as  this,  like  Balaam's,  prates?" 
"  Let 's  hear,"  quoth  Michael,  "  what  he  has  to  say; 
You  know  we're  bound  to  that  in  every  way." 

xc. 

Now  the  bard,  glad  to  get  an  audience,  which 

By  no  means  often  was  his  case  below. 
Began  to  cough,  and  hawk,  and  hem,  and  pitch 

His  voice  into  that  awful  note  of  woe 
To  all  unhappy  hearers  within  reach 

Of  poets  when  the  tide  of  rhyme  's  in  flow; 
But  stuck  fast  with  his  first  hexameter, 
Not  one  of  all  whose  gouty  feet  would  stir, 

xci. 

But  ere  the  spavin'd  dactyls  could  be  spurr'd 

Into  recitative,  in  great  dismay. 
Both  cherubim  and  seraphim  were  heard 

To  murmur  loudly  through  their  long  array; 
And  Michael  rose  ere  he  could  get  a  word 

Of  all  his  founder'd  verses  under  way. 
And  cried,  "  For  God's  sake  stop,  my  friend;  'twere  best— 
No7i  Di,  non  homines — ^you  know  the  rest." 

XCII. 

A  general  bustle  spread  throughout  the  throng, 
Which  seem'd  to  hold  all  verse  in  detestation; 
\  The  angels  had  of  course  enough  of  song 

When  upon  service;  and  the  generation 

Of  ghosts  had  heard  too  much  in  life,  not  long 
Before,  to  profit  by  a  new  occasion: 

The  monarch,  mute  till  then,  exclaim'd,  "What!  what! 

Pijc  come  again?    No  more — no  more  of  that!" 

^ fr^ 


THE  VISION  01"  JUDGMENT.  505 


The  tumult  grew;  an  universal  couffh 

Convulsed  the  skies,  as  during  a  debate, 
When  Castlereagh  has  been  up  long  enough 

(Before  he  was  first  minister  of  state. 
I  mean — the  daves  hear  now);  some  cried,  "  Off,  off  1" 

As  at  a  farce,  till,  grown  quite  desperate, 
The  bard  Saint  Peter  pray'd  to  interpose 
(Himself  an  author)  only  for  his  repose. 

xciv 

The  varlet  was  not  an  ill-favor'd  knave; 

A  good  deal  like  a  vulture  in  the  face. 
With  a  hook  nose  and  a  hawk's  eye,  which  gave 

A  smart  and  sharper-looking  sort  of  grace 
To  his  whole  aspect,  which,  though  rather  grave, 

Was  by  no  means  so  ugly  as  his  case; 
But  that  indeed  was  hopeless  as  can  be, 
Quite  a  poetic  felony  *'  dese," 

xcv. 
Then  Michael  blew  his  trump,  and  still'd  the  noise 

With  one  still  greater,  as  is  yet  the  mode 
On  earth  besides;  except  some  grumbling  voice. 

Which  now  and  then  will  make  a  slight  inroad 
Upon  decorous  silence,  few  will  twice 

Lift  up  their  lungs  when  fairly  overcrow' d 
And  now  the  bard  could  plead  his  own  bad  cause, 
With  all  the  attitudes  of  self-applause. 

xcvi. 
He  said — (I  only  give  the  heads) — he  said. 

He  meant  no  harm  in  scribbling;  'twas  his  way 
Upon  all  topics;  'twas,  besides,  his  bread, 

Of  which  he  butter'd  both  sides;  'twould  delay 
Too  long  the  assembly  (he  was  pleased  to  dread), 

And  take  up  rather  more  time  than  a  day 
To  name  his  works — he  would  but  cite  a  few — 
*'  Wat  Tyler"—"  Rhymes  on  Blenheim"—"  Waterloo." 

XCVII. 

He  had  written  praises  of  a  regicide; 

He  had  written  praises  of  all  kings  whatever; 
He  had  written  for  republics  far  and  wide, 

And  then  against  them  bitterer  than  ever; 
For  pantisocracy  he  once  had  cried 

Aloud,  a  scheme  less  moral  than  'twas  clever; 
Then  grew  a  hearty  anti-Jacobin — 
Had  turn'd  his  coat— and  would  have  turned  his  skin. 

XCVIII. 

He  had  sun^  against  all  battles,  and  again 
In  their  high  praise  and  glory;  he  had  call'd 

Reviewing  "the  ungentle  craft,"  and  then* 
Become  as  base  a  critic  as  e'er  crawl'd — 

*  See  "  Life  of  Henry  Kirko  White." 

Bl  ■ «-^ 


+ 


506  THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 

Fed,  paid,  and  pamper'd  by  the  very  men 

By  whom  his  muse  and  morals  had  been  maul'd: 
He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows. 

xcix. 
He  had  written  Wesley's  life;— here  turning  round 

To  Satan:  "  Sir,  I'm  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most  allurea 
The  pious  purchaser;  and  there's  no  ^ound 

For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers: 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints.'* 

c. 
Satan  bow'd,  and  was  silent.     "  Well,  if  you. 

With  amiable  modesty,  decline 
My  offer,  what  says  Michael  ?    There  are  few 

Whose  memoirs  could  be  render'd  more  divine. 
Mine  is  a  pen  of  all  work:  not  so  new 

As  it  was  once,  but  I  would  make  you  shine 
Like  your  own  trumpet.  By  the  way,  my  own 
Has  more  of  brass  in  it,  and  is  as  well  blown. 

CI. 

''  But  talking  about  trumpets,  here's  my  vision ! 

Now  you  shall  judge,  all  people;  yes,  you  shall 
Judge  with  my  judgment,  and  by  my  decision 

Be  guided  who  shall  enter  heaven,  or  fall. 
I  settle  all  these  things  by  intuition, 

Times  present,  past,  to  come,  heaven,  hell,  and  all, 
Like  king  Alfonso.     When  I  thus  see  double,* 
I  save  the  Deity  some  words  of  trouble." 

CII. 

He  ceased,  and  drew  forth  an  MS. ;  and  no 

Persuasion  on  the  part  of  devils,  or  saints. 
Or  angels,  now  could  stop  the  torrent;  so 

He  read  the  first  three  lines  of  the  contents; 
But  at  the  fouiih,  the  whole  spiritual  show 

Had  vanisli'd,  with  variety  of  scents. 
Ambrosial  and  sulphureous,  as  they  sprang, 
Like  lightning,  off  from  his  "  melodious  twang,  "t 

CTTI. 

Those  grand  heroics  acted  as  a  spell; 

The  angels  stopp'd  their  ears  and  plied  their  pinions; 
The  devils  ran  howling,  deafen'd,  down  to  hell; 

The  ghosts  fled,  gibbering,  for  their  own  dominions— 

*  Alfonso,  speaking  of  the  Ptolomean  system,  said,  that  "had  he 
heo.n  consulted  at  the  creation  of  the  world,  he  would  have  spared 
the  Maker  son)o  absurdities." 

t  See  Aubrey's  account  of  the  apparition  which  disappeared 
**  with  a  curious  perfuino  and  a  viost  mdodioiis  twang;'"  or  see  the 
A:itiquary^  vol.  1.  p.  225. 

♦*— -*♦ 


— -«^ 

THE  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT.        .  507 

(For  'tis  not  yet  decided  where  they  dwell, 
And  I  leave  every  man  to  his  opinions); 
Michael  took  refuge  in  his  trump— but,  lo! 
His  teeth  were  set  on  edge,  he  could  not  blow! 


Saint  Peter,  who  has  hitherto  been  known 
For  an  impetuous  saint,  upraised  his  keys, 

And  at  the  fifth  line  knock'd  the  poet  down; 
AVho  fell  like  Phaethon,  but  more  at  ease. 

Into  his  lake,  for  there  he  did  not  drown; 
A  different  web  being  by  the  Destinies 

Woven  for  the  Laureate's  final  wreath,  whene'er 

Reform  shall  happen  either  here  or  there. 

cv. 
He  first  sank  to  the  bottom— like  his  works, 

But  soon  rose  to  the  surface — like  himself; 
For  all  corrupted  things  are  buoy'd  like  corks,* 

By  their  own  rottenness,  light  as  an  elf. 
Or  wisp  that  flits  o'er  a  morass;  he  lurks, 

It  may  be,  still,  like  dull  books  on  a  shelf, 
In  his  own  den,  to  scrawl  some  "  Life"  or  "Vision," 
As  Welbom  says—"  the  devil  tum'd  precisian." 

cvi. 
As  for  the  rest,  to  come  to  the  conclusion 

Of  this  true  dream,  the  telescope  is  gone 
Which  kept  my  optics  free  from  all  delusion, 

And  show'd  me  what  I  in  my  turn  have  shown; 
All  I  saw  further,  in  the  last  confusion, 

Was  that  King  George  slipp'd  into  heaven  for  one;    , 
And  when  the  tumult  dwindled  to  a  calm, 
I  left  him  practising  the  hundredth  psalm. 

*  A  drowned  body  lies  at  the  bottom  till  rotten;  it  then  floats, 
most  people  know. 


-t 


-It* 


^K 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Soiij  fJioi,  CTcis  ayanoi.* 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  Bince  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 

2u>i}  t^-ov,  cd'!  ayairiii' 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  .^gean  wind; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Swt;  IJ.OV,  adi  dyaTToi' 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist: 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tellt 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

'2,it>ri  /xoO,  <rat  dyanit)- 

Maid  of  Athens!  I  am  gone: 
Think  of  me,  sweet!  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol,^ 
Athens  holds  my  heart*  and  soul: 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee?    Nol 

^uj-q  (xov,  crds  ayairoii. 

Athens,  1810. 

*  Romaic  expression  of  tenderness:  if  I  translate  it,  I  shall  affront 
the  g'entlemen,  as  it  may  seem  that  I  supposed  they  could  not;  and 
if  I  do  not,  I  may  affront  tlie  ladit'S.  Fi)r  fear  of  any  niiscoustruc- 
tion  on  the  part  of  the  latter,  I  shall  do  so,  begging  pardon  of  the 
learned.  It  means,  "My  life.  Hove  you!"  which  sounds  very  pret- 
tily in  all  languages,  and  is  as  much  in  fashion  in  Greece  at  this 
day,  as,  Juvenal  tells  us,  the  two  first  words  were  amongst  the 
Roman  ladies,  who.se  erotic  expressions  were  all  Hellenized. 

+  In  the  East,  (where  ladies  are  not  taught  to  write,  lest  they 
should  scribble  assignations,)  flowers,  cinders,  pebbles,  &c.,  convey 
the  sentiments  of  the  parties,  by  thatuniversal  deputy  of  Mercury — 
an  old  woman.  A  cinder  says,  "I  bum  for  thee;''  a  bunch  of  flow- 
ers tied  with  hair,  "  Take  me  and  fly;"  but  a  pebble  declares— what 
nothing  else  can . 

t  Constantinople. 


■IK 


^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  50» 

FAREWELL!  IF  EVER  FONDEST  PRAYER. 

Farewell!  If  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  others'  weal  avail'd  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'Twere  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh: 

Oh!  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word — Farewell! — Farewell! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry; 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  baain 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by. 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain. 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel: 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain — 

I  only  feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 
1808. 


1808. 


BRIGHT  BE  THE  PLACE  OF  THY  SOUL. 

Bright  be  the  place  of  thy  soul! 

No  lovelier  spirit  than  thine 
E'er  burst  from  its  mortal  control, 

In  the  orbs  of  the  blessed  to  shine. 

On  earth  thou  wert  all  but  divine, 
As  thy  soul  shall  immortally  be; 

And  our  sorrow  may  cease  to  repine. 
When  we  know  that  thy  God  is  with  thee. 

Light  be  the  turf  of  thy  tomb! 

May  its  verdure  like  emeralds  be. 
There  should  not  be  the  shadow  of  gloom 

In  aught  that  reminds  us  of  thee. 

Young  flowers  and  an  evergreen  tree 
May  spring  from  the  spot  of  thy  rest: 

But  nor  cypress  nor  yew  let  us  see; 
For  why  should  we  moum  for  the  blest? 


REMIND  ME  NOT,  REMIND  ME  NOT. 

Remind  me  not,  remind  me  not, 
Of  those  beloved,  those  vanish'd  hours, 
When  all  my  soul  was  given  to  thee; 
Hours  that  may  never  be  forgot. 
Till  time  unnerves  our  vital  powers. 
And  thou  and  I  shall  cease  to  be. 

Can  I  forget — canst  thou  forget, 
When  playing  with  thy  golden  hair. 
How  quick  thy  fluttering  heart  did  move? 


*i 

L 

J 

u 

^n. 

* 

r^ 

610                        MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Oh!  by  my  soul,  I  see  thee  yet, 
With  eyes  so  languid,  breast  so  fair, 
And  lips,  though  silent,  breathing  love. 

• 

When  thus  reclining  on  my  breast. 
Those  eyes  threw  back  a  glance  so  sweet, 
As  half  reproach'd  yet  raised  desire. 
And  still  we  near  and  nearer  prest. 
And  still  our  glowing  lips  would  meet. 
As  if  in  kisses  to  expjre. 

And  then  those  pensive  eyes  would  close, 
And  bid  their  lids  each  other  seek, 
Veiling  the  azure  orbs  below; 
While  their  fong  lashes'  darken'd  gloss 
Seem'd  stealing  o'er  thy  brilliant  cheek, 
Like  raven's  plumage  smooth'd  on  snow. 

I  dreamt  last  night  our  love  return 'd, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  that  very  dream 
Was  sweeter  in  its  fantasy, 
Than  if  for  other  hearts  I  burn'd, 
For  eyes  that  ne'er  like  thine  could  beam 
Li  rapture's  wild  reality. 

Then  tell  me  not,  remind  me  not. 
Of  hours  which,  though  for  ever  gone, 
Can  still  a  pleasing  dream  restore. 
Till  thou  and  I  shall  be  forgot. 
And  senseless  as  the  mouldering  stone 
Which  tells  that  we  shall  be  no  more. 

THERE  WAS  A  TIME,  I  NEED  NOT  NAME. 

There  was  a  time,  I  need  not  name. 
Since  it  will  ne'er  forgotten  be. 

When  all  our  feelings  were  the  same 
As  still  my  soul  hath  been  to  thee. 

And  from  that  hour  when  first  thy  tongue 
Confess'd  a  love  which  equal! 'd  mine. 

Though  many  a  grief  my  heart  hath  wrung, 
Unknown,  and  thus  unfelt  by  thine, 

,J^ 

1 

None,  none  hath  sunk  so  deep  as  this — 

To  think  how  all  that  love  hath  flown; 
Transient  as  every  faithless  kiss. 

But  transient  in  thy  breast  alone. 

And  yet  my  heart  some  solace  knew. 

When  late  I  heard  Ihy  lips  declare. 
In  accents  once  imagined  true, 

Remembrance  of  the  days  that  were. 

Yes!  my  adored,  yet  most  unkind! 

Though  thou  wilt  never  love  again, 
To  me  'tis  doubly  sweet  to  lind 

Remembrance  of  that  love  remain. 

* 

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• 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.                        511 

Yes!  'tis  a  glorious  thought  to  me, 
Nor  longer  shall  my  soul  repine, 

Whate'er  thou  art,  or  e'er  ehalt  be. 
Thou  hast  been  dearly,  solely  mine. 

AND  WILT  THOU  WEEP  WHEN  I  AM  LOW? 

And  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  lady!  speak  those  words  again: 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  say  not  so— 

1  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  hopes  are  gone, 
My  blood  runs  coldly  through  my  breast; 

And  when  I  perish,  thou  alone 
Wilt  sigh  above  my  place  of  rest. 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  gleam  of  peace 
Doth  through  my  cloud  of  anguish  shine; 

And  for  a  while  my  sorrows  cease, 
To  know  thy  heart  hath  felt  for  mine. 

0  lady!  blesseti  be  that  tear- 
It  falls  for  one  who  cannot  weep: 

Such  precious  drops  are  doubly  dear 
To  those  whose  eyes  no  tear  may  steep. 

Sweet  lady!  once  my  heart  was  warm 
With  every  feeling  soft  as  thine; 

But  Beauty's  self  hath  ceased  to  charm 
A  wretch  created  to  repine. 

• 

Yet  wilt  thou  weep  when  I  am  low? 

Sweet  lady!  speak  those  words  again; 
Yet  if  they  grieve  thee,  ^ay  not  so — 

I  would  not  give  that  bosom  pain. 

ON  PARTING. 

The  kiss,  dear  maid!  thy  lip  has  left 
Shall  never  part  from  mine, 

Till  happier  hours  restore  the  gift 
Untainted  back  to  thine. 

Thy  parting  glance,  which  fondly  beams, 

An  equal  love  may  see; 
The  tear  that  from  thine  ej^elld  streams 

Can  weep  no  change  in  me- 

I  ask  no  pledge  to  make  me  blest 

In  gazing  when  alone; 
Nor  one  memorial  for  a  breast 

Whose  thoughts  are  ail  thine  own. 

.^ 

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613                        MISCETJ.ANEOUS  POEMS. 

Nor  need  I  write— to  tell  the  tale 
My  pen  were  doubly  weak: 

Oh!  what  can  idle  words  avail. 
Unless  the  heart  could  speak? 

r*^ 

■* 

By  day  or  night,  in  weal  or  woe, 
That  heart,  no  longer  free, 

Must  bear  the  love  it  cannot  show, 
And  silent,  ache  for  thee. 
Mmvh,  1811. 

THOU  ART  NOT  FALSE,  BUT  THOU  ART  FICKLE. 

Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  fickle, 
To  those  thyself  so  fondly  sought; 

The  tears  that  thou  hast  forced  to  trickle 
Are  doubly  bitter  from  that  thought: 

»Tis  this  which  breaks  the  heart  thon  grievest, 

Too  well  thou  lov'st— too  soon  thou  leavest. 

The  wholly  false  the  heart  despises. 
And  spurns  deceiver  and  deceit; 

But  she  who  not  a  thought  disguises. 
Whose  love  is  as  sincere  as  sweet, — 

When  she  can  change  who  loved  so  truly, 

It  feels  what  mine  has  felt  so  newly. 

To  dream  of  Joy  and  wake  to  sorrow, 
Is  doomed  to  all  who  love  or  live; 

And  if,  when  conscious  on  the  morrow. 
We  scarce  our  fancy  can  forgive. 

That  cheated  us  in  slumber  only, 

To  leave  the  waking  soul  more  lonely. 

What  must  they  feel  whom  no  false  vision. 
But  truest,  tenderest  passion  warm'd? 

Sincere,  but  swift  in  sad  transition; 
As  if  a  dream  alone  had  charmed?        * 

Ah!  sure  such  grief  is  fancy's  scheming, 

And  all  thy  change  can  be  but  dreaming! 

REMEMBER  HTM,  WHOM  PASSION'S  POWER. 

Rkmkmbbr  him,  whom  passion's  power 
Severely,  deeply,  vainly  proved: 

Rememl>er  thou  tliat  djingcrous  hour 
When  neither  fell,  though  both  were  loved. 

That  yielding  breast,  that  raelf  ing  eye. 
Too  much  invited  to  be  bless'd; 

That  gentle  prayer,  that  pleading  sigh. 
The  wilder  wish  reproved,  repress'd. 

Oh!  let  me  feel  that  all  I  lost 

But  saved  thee  all  that  conscience  fears; 
And  blush  for  every  paug  it  cost 

To  spare  the  vain  remorse  of  years. 

^  » 

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^ — — -*- 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  513 

Yet  think  of  this  when  many  a  tongue, 

Whose  busy  accents  whisper  blame, 
"Would  do  the  heart  that  loved  thee  wrong, 

And  brand  a  nearly  blighted  name. 

Think  that,  whate'er  to  others,  thou 
Hast  seen  each  selfish  thought  subdued: 

I  bless  thy  purer  soul  even  now, 
Even  now,  in  midnight  solitude. 

Oh,  God!  that  we  had  met  in  time, 
Our  hearts  as  fond,  thy  hand  more  free; 

When  thou  hadst  loved  without  a  crime, 
And  I  been  less  unworthy  thee. 

Ear  may  thy  days,  as  heretofore. 

From  this  our  gaudy  world  be  past  I 
And  that  too  bitter  moment  o'er, 

Oh!  may  such  trial  be  thy  last! 
This  heart,  alas!  perverted  long, 

Itself  destroy'd  might  thee  destroy; 
To  meet  thee  in  the  glittering  throng, 

Would  wake  Presumption's  hope  of  joy. 

Then  to  the  things  whose  bliss  or  woe. 

Like  mine,  is  wild  and  worthless  all, 
That  world  resign — such  scenes  forego, 

Where  those  who  feel  must  surely  fall. 

Thy  youth,  thy  charms,  thy  tenderness, 

Thy  soul  from  long  seclusion  pure; 
From  what  even  here  hath  pass'd,  may  guess 

What  there  thy  bosom  must  endure.  ^ 

Oh!  pardon  that  imploring  tear. 

Since  not  by  Virtue  shed  in  vain. 
My  frenzy  drew  from  eyes  so  dear; 

For  me  they  shall  not  weep  again. 

Though  long  and  mournful  must  it  be. 
The  thought  that  we  no  more  may  meet; 

Yet  I  deserve  the  stern  decree. 
And  almost  deem  the  sentence  sweet. 

Still,  had  I  loved  thee  less,  my  heart 

Had  then  less  sacrificed  to  thine; 
It  felt  not  half  so  much  to  part. 
As  if  its  guilt  had  made  thee  mine. 
1813.  

LINES  WRITTEN  BENEATH  A  PICTURE. 

Dear  object  of  defeated  care! 

Though  now  of  Love  and  thee  bereft, 
To  reconcile  me  with  despair. 

Thine  image  and  my  tears  are  left. 
'Tis  said  with  Soitow  Time  can  cope; 

But  this  I  feel  can  ne'er  be  true: 
For  by  the  deathblow  of  my  Hope 

My  Memory  immortal  grew. 


41- 


T* 


« 

614  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 
There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me; 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep: 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


THE  CHAIN  I  GAVE. 

FROM  THE  TURKISH. 

The  chain  I  gave  was  fair  to  view, 
The  lute  I  added  sweet  in  sound; 

The  heart  that  offer' d  both  was  true, 
And  ill  deserved  the  fate  it  found. 

These  gifts  were  charm'd  by  secret  spell. 
Thy  truth  in  absence  to  divine; 

And  they  have  done  their  duty  well, — 
Alas  I  they  could  not  teach  thee  thine. 

That  chain  was  firm  in  every  link, 
But  not  to  bear  a  stranger's  touch; 

That  lute  was  sweet— till  thou  couldst  think 
In  other  hands  its  notes  were  such. 

Let  him,  who  from  thy  neck  unbound 
The  chain  which  shiver'd  in  his  grasp. 

Who  saw  that  note  refuse  to  sound, 
Ke-string  the  chords,  renew  the  clasp. 

When  thou  wert  changed,  they  alter'd  too; 

The  chain  is  broke,  the  music  mute. 
'Tis  pastr— to  them  and  thee  adieu — 

False  heart,  frail  chain,  and  silent  lute. 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ROMAIC  SONG: 

"  Mrrewrt  jute?  *T<r'  iripl^6\i' 
•fipatoTa-nj  XaijSrj/'  &c.* 

I  ENTER  thy  garden  of  roses. 
Beloved  and  fair  Haid»je, 

*  The  song  from  which  this  is  taken  is  a  great  favorite  with  the 
young  girls  of  Athens  of  all  classes.  Their  manner  of  singing  it  is 
by  verses  in  rotation,  the  whole  niimber  present  joining  in  the 
chorus.    The  air  is  plaintive  and  pretty 


-t 


iK 


^ — * 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  515 

Each  morning  where  Flora  reposes, 

For  surely  I  see  her  in  thee. 
Oh,  Lovely!  thus  low  I  implore  thee, 

Receive  this  fond  truth  from  my  tongue, 
Which  utters  its  song  to  adore  thee, 

Yet  trembles  for  what  it  has  sung; 
As  the  branch  at  the  bidding  of  Nature, 

Adds  fragrance  and  fruit  to  the  tree. 
Through  her  eyes,  through  her  every  feature, 

Shines  the  soul  of  the  young  Haidee. 

But  the  loveliest  garden  grows  hateful 

When  Love  has  iibandon'd  the  bowei-s; 
Bring  me  hemlock — since  mine  is  ungrateful, 

That  herb  is  more  fragrant  than  flowers. 
The  poison,  when  pour'd  from  the  chalice. 

Will  deeply  embitter  the  bowl; 
But  when  drunk  to  escape  from  thy  malice. 

The  draught  shall  be  sweet  to  my  soul. 
Too  cruel!  in  vain  I  implore  thee 

My  heart  from  these  horrors  to  save: 
Will  nought  to  my  bosom  restore  thee? 

Then  open  the  gates  of  the  grave. 

As  the  chief  who  to  combat  advances 

Secure  of  his  conquest  before. 
Thus  thou,  with  those  eyes  for  thy  lances, 

Hast  pierced  through  my  heait  to  itff  core. 
Ah,  tell  me,  my  soull  must  T  perish 

By  pangs  which  a  smile  would  dispel? 
Would  the  hope,  which  thou  once  bad'st  me  cherish, 

For  torture  repay  me  too  well? 
Now  sad  is  the  garden  of  roses. 

Beloved  but  false  Haidee! 
There  Flora  all  withered  reposes 

And  mourns  o'er  thine  absence  with  me. 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  ROMAIC  LOVE  SONG. 

Ah!  Love  was  never  yet  without 
The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt. 
Which  rends  my  heart  with  ceaseless  sigh, 
While  day  and  night  roll  darkling  by. 

Without  one  friend  to  hear  my  woe, 
I  faint,  I  die  beneath  the  blow. 
That  Love  had  arrows,  well  I  knew; 
Alas!  I  find  them  poison'd  too. 

Birds,  yet  in  freedom,  shun  the  net 
Which  Love  around  your  haunts  hath  set; 
Or,  circled  by  his  fatal  fire, 
Your  hearts  shall  burn,  your  hopes  expire. 

*m ^ 


516  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  bird  of  free  and  careless  wing 
Was  I,  through  many  a  smiling  spring; 
But  caught  within  the  subtle  snare, 
I  bum,  and  feebly  flutter  there. 

Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain, 
The  cold  repulse,  the  look  askance. 
The  lightning  of  Love's  angry  glance. 

In  flattering  dreams  I  deem'd  thee  mine; 
Now  hope,  and  he  who  hoped,  decline; 
Like  melting  wax,  or  withering  flower, 
I  feel  my  passion,  and  thy  power. 

My  light  o/  life!  ah,  tell  me  why 

That  pouting  lip,  and  alter'd  eye? 

My  bird  of  love!  my  beauteous  mate! 

And  art  thou  changed,  and  canst  thou  hate? 

Mine  eyes  like  •v^ntry  streams  overflow: 
What  wretch  with  me  would  barter  woe? 
My  bird!  relent!   one  note  could  give 
A  charm,  to  bid  thy  lover  live. 

My  curdling  blood,  my  madd'ning  brain, 
In  silent  anguish  I  sustain; 
And  still  thy  heart,  without  partaking 
One  pang,  exults — while  mine  is  breaking. 

Pour  me  the  poison;  fear  not  thou! 
Thou  canst  not  murder  more  than  now: 
I've  lived  to  curse  my  natal  day, 
And  Love  that  thus  can  lingering  slay. 

My  wounded  soul,  my  bleeding  breast, 
Can  patience  preach  thee  into  rest? 
Alas!   too  late,  I  dearly  know 
That  joy  is  harbinger  of  woe. 


FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE. 

"tu  mi  chamas." 

In  moments  to  delight  devoted, 

"  My  life!"  with  tenderest  tone,  you  cry! 
Dear  words!  on  which  mv  heart  had  doted, 

If  youth  could  neither  fade  nor  die. 

To  death  even  hours  like  these  must  roll. 
Ah!  then  repeat  those  accents  never; 


Or  change  "  my  life!"  into  "  my  soul!' 
Which,  like  my  love,  exists  for  ever. 

ANOTHER  VERSION. 

You  call  me  still  your  life.— Oh\  change  the  word- 
Life  is  as  transient  as  the  inconstant  sigh; 

Say  rather  I'm  your  soul;  more  just  that  name; 
iTor,  like  the  soul,  my  love  can  never  die. 

♦* — *♦ 


. ft- 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  517 

SONNETS  TO  GENEVRA. 


Thine  eyes'  blue  tenderness,  thy  long  fair  hair, 
And  the  wan  lustre  of  thy  features — ^caught 
From  contemplation — where  serenely  wrought, 

Seems  Sorrow's  softness  charm'd  from  its  despair — 

Have  thrown  such  speaking  sadness  in  thine  air, 
That— but  I  know  thy  blessed  bosom  fraught 
With  mines  of  unalloy'd  and  stainless  thought — 

I  should  have  deem'd  thee  doom'd  to  earthly  care. 

With  such  an  aspect,  by  his  colors  blent. 
When  from  his  beauty-breathing  pencil  bom, 

(Except  that  thou  hast  nothing  to  repent) 
The  Magdalen  of  Guido  saw  the  mom — 

Such  seem'st  thou — but  how  much  more  excellent! 
With  nought  Remorse  can  claim — nor  Virtue  scorn. 
December  17, 1813. 


Tht  cheek  is  pale  with  thought,  but  not  from  woe. 
And  yet  so  lovely,  that  if  Mirth  could  flush 
Its  rose  of  whiteness  with  the  brightest  blush, 

My  heart  would  wish  away  that  ruder  glow: 

And  dazzle  not  thy  deep-blue  eyes — but,  oh! 
While  gazing  on  them  sterner  eyes  will  gush. 
And  into  mine  my  mother's  weakness  rush, 

Soft  as  the  last  drops  round  heaven's  airy  bow. 

For,  through  thy  long  dark  lashes  low  depending. 
The  soul  of  melancholy  Gentleness 

Gleams  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky  descending. 
Above  all  pain,  yet  pitying  all  distress; 

At  once  such  majesty  with  sweetness  blending, 
I  worship  more,  but  cannot  love  thee  less. 


SONNET  TO  LAKE  LEMAN. 

Rousseau— Voltaire— Our  Gibbon,  and  De  Stael— 

Leman!  these  names  are  worthy  of  thy  shore,* 

Thy  shore  of  names  like  these!  wert  thou  no  more, 
Their  memory  thy  remembrance  would  recall: 
To  them  thy  banks  were  lovely  as  to  all. 

But  they  have  made  them  lovelier,  for  the  lore 

Of  mighty  minds  doth  hallow  in  the  core 
Of  human  hearts  the  ruin  of  a  wall 

Where  dwelt  the  wise  and  wondrous;  but  by  theef 
How  much  more,  Lake  of  Beauty!  do  we  feel. 

In  sweetly  gliding  o'er  thy  crystal  sea, 
The  wild  glow  of  that  not  ungentle  zeal. 

Which  of  the  heirs  of  immortality 
Is  proud,  and  makes  the  breath  of  glory  reall 

♦  Geneva,  Ferney,  Copet,  Lausanne. 

♦» *-- 


^K 


518  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


DARKNESS. 


I  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguish'd,  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Rayless,  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air; 

Mom  came  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 

And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation;  and  all  hearts 

Were  chill'd  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light: 

And  they  did  live  by  watchfires— and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings— the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Were  burnt  for  beacons;  cities  were  consumed, 

And  men  were  gather'd  round  their  blazing  homes 

To  look  once  more  into  each  others'  face; 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes,  and  their  mountain-torch: 

A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contain'd; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire— but  hour  by  hour 

They  fell  and  faded — and  the  crackling  trunks 

Extinguish'd  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men  by  the  despairing  light 

Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them;  some  lay  down 

And  hid  their  eyes  and  wept;  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  look'd  up 

With  mad  disquietude  on  the  dull  sky. 

The  pall  of  a  past  world;  and  then  again 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnash'd  their  teeth  and  howl'd:  the  wild  birds  shriek'd, 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings;  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame  and  tremulous;  and  vipers  crawl'd 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude. 

Hissing  but  stingless — ^they  were  slain  for  food: 

And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more. 

Did  glut  nimself  again; — a  meal  was  bought 

With  blood,  and  each  sate  sullenly  apart 

Gorging  himself  in  gloom:  no  love  was  left; 

All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death. 

Immediate  and  inglorious;  and  the  pang 

Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails — men 

Died,  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh; 

The  meagre  by  the  meagre  were  devour'd, 

Even  dogs  assaiVd  their  masters,  al!  save  one, 

And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 

The  birds  and  beasts  and  famish 'd  men  at  bay, 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 

Lured  their  lank  jaws;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 

But  with  a  piteous  and  perpetual  moan, 

And  a  quick  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 

Which  answered  not  wilh  a  caiees — he  died. 

♦* — *♦ 


it 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  519 

The  crowd  was  famish'd  by  degrees;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 
And  they  were  enemies:  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heap'd  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage;  they  raked  up, 
And  shivering  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery;  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects — saw,  andshriek'd,  and  died — 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend.     The  world  was  void, 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless — 
A  lump  of  death — a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 
The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean  all  stood  still, 
And  nothing  stirr'd  within  their  silent  depths; 
Ships  sailorless  lay  rolling  on  the  sea. 
And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal;  as  they  dropp'd 
They  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge — 
The  waves  were  dead;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave, 
The  Moon,  their  mistress  had  expired  before; 
The  winds  were  wither'd  in  the  stagnant  air. 
And  the  clouds  perish'dl    Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them— She  was  the  Universe! 
DiODATi,  Jubjj  1816. 


CHURCHILL'S  GRAVE. 

A  FACT  LITERALLY  RENDERED. 

I  STOOD  beside  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 

The  comet  of  a  season,  and  I  saw 
The  humblest  of  all  sepulchres,  and  gazed 

With  not  the  less  of  sorrow  and  of  awe 
On  that  neglected  turf  and  quiet  stone. 
With  name  no  clearer  than  the  names  unknown, 
Which  lay  unread  around  it;  and  1  ask'd 

The  Gardener  of  that  ground,  why  it  might  be 
That  for  this  plant  strangers  his  memory  task'd 

Through  the  thick  deaths  of  half  a  century? 
And  thus  he  answer' d:  "  Well,  I  do  not  know 
Why  frequent  travellers  turn  to  pilgrims  so; 
He  died  before  ray  day  of  Sextonship, 

And  I  had  not  the  digging  of  this  grave." 
And  is  this  all?    I  thought,— and  do  we  rip 

The  veil  of  Immortality?  and  crave 
I  know  not  what  of  honor  and  of  light 
Through  unborn  ages,  to  endure  this  blight? 
So  soon,  and  so  successless?  As  I  said, 
The  Architect  of  all  on  which  we  tread. 
For  Earth  is  but  a  tombstone,  did  essay 
To  extricate  remembrance  from  the  clay. 


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^ ^ 

520  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Whose  minglings  might  confuse  a  Newton's  thought, 
Were  it  not  that  all  life  must  end  in  one, 
Of  which  we  are  but  dreamers;— as  he  caught 
As  'twere  the  twilight  of  a  former  Sun, 
Thus  spoke  he:  "1  believe  the  man  of  whom 
You  wot,  who  lies  in  this  selected  tomb, 
Was  a  most  famous  writer  in  his  day, 
And  therefore  travellers  step  from  out  their  way 
To  pay  to  him  honor, — and  myself  whate'er 
Your  honor  pleases."     Then  most  pleased  I  shook 
From  out  my  pocket's  avaricious  nook 
Some  certain  coins  of  silver,  which  as  'twere 
Perforce  I  gave  this  man,  though  I  could  spare 
So  much  but  inconveniently: — Ye  smile, 
I  see  ye,  ye  profane  ones!  all  the  while, 
Because  my  homely  phrase  the  truth  would  tell. 
You  are  the  fools,  not  I— for  I  did  dwell 
With  a  deep  thought,  and  with  a  soften'd  eye, 
On  that  old  Sexton's  natural  homily. 
In  which  there  was  Obscurity  and  Fame, — 
The  Glory  and  the  Nothing  of  a  Name. 
DiODATI,  1816. 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  FRIEND. 

Few  years  have  pass'd  since  thou  and  I 

Were  firmest  friends,  at  least  in  name, 
And  childhood's  gay  sincerity 

Preserved  our  feelings  long  the  same. 

But  now,  like  me,  too  well  thou  know'st 

What  trifles  oft  the  heart  recall; 
And  those  who  once  have  loved  the  most 

Too  soon  forget  they  loved  at  all. 

And  such  the  change  the  heart  displays, 

So  frail  is  early  friendship's  reign, 
A  month's  brief  lapse,  perhaps  a  day's, 

Will  view  thy  mind  estranged  again. 

If  so,  it  never  shall  be  mine 

To  mourn  the  loss  of  such  a  heart; 
The  fault  was  Nature's  fault,  not  thine, 

Which  made  thee  fickle  as  thou  art. 

As  rolls  the  ocean's  changing  tide, 

So  human  feelings  ebb  and  flow; 
And  who  would  in  a  breast  confide 

Where  stormy  passions  ever  glow  I 

It  boots  not  that,  together  bred. 

Our  childish  days  were  days  of  joy: 
My  spring  of  life  has  quickly  fled; 

Thou,  too,  hast  ceased  to  be  a  boy. 

And  when  we  bid  adieu  to  youth. 

Slaves  to  the  specious  world's  control, 
We  sigh  a  long  farewell  to  truth; 

That  world  corrupts  the  noblest  soul. 

♦*— #- 


^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  521 

Ah,  joyous  season!  when  the  mind 

Dares  all  things  boldly  but  to  lie; 
When  thought  ere  spoke  is  unconfined, 

And  sparkles  in  the  placid  eye. 

Not  so  in  Man's  maturer  years, 

When  Man  himself  is  but  a  tool; 
When  interest  sways  our  hopes  and  fears, 

And  all  must  love  and  hate  by  rule. 

With  fools  in  kindred  vice  the  same, 
We  learn  at  length  our  faults  to  blend; 

And  those,  and  those  alone,  may  claim 
The  prostituted  name  of  friend. 

Such  is  the  common  lot  of  man: 

Can  we  then  'scape  from  folly  free? 
Can  we  reverse  the  general  plan, 

Nor  be  what  all  in  turn  must  be? 

No;  for  myself,  so  dark  my  fate 

Through  every  turn  of  life  hath  been, 
Man  and  the  world  I  so  much  hate, 

I  care  not  when  I  quit  the  scene. 

But  thou,  with  spirit  frail  and  light, 

Wilt  shine  awhile,  and  pass  away; 
As  glow-worms  sparkle  through  the  night. 

But  dare  not  stand  the  test  of  day. 

Alas  !  whenever  folly  calls 

Where  parasites  and  princes  meet, 
(For  cherish'd  first  in  royal  halls, 

The  welcome  vices  kindly  greet,) 

E'en  now  thou'rt  nightly  seen  to  add 

One  insect  to  the  fluttering  crowd; 
And  still  thy  trifling  heart  is  glad 

To  join  the  vain,  and  court  the  proud. 

There  dost  thou  glide  from  fair  to  fair, 

Still  simpering  on  with  eager  haste. 
As  flies  along  the  gay  parterre 

That  taint  the  flowers  they  scarcely  taste. 

But  say,  what  nymph  will  prize  the  flame 

Which  seems,  as  marshy  vapors  move, 
To  flit  along  from  dame  to  dame. 

An  ignis-fatuus  gleam  of  love  ? 

WHhat  friend  for  thee,  howe'er  inclined, 

Will  deign  to  own  a  kindred  care? 
Who  will  debase  his  manly  mind, 

For  friendship  every  fool  may  share? 

In  time  forbear;  amidst  the  throng 

No  more  so  base  a  thing  be  seen; 
No  more  so  idly  pass  along: 

Be  something,  anything,  but — mean. 
1808. 

♦^ fr^ 


4K 


52  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF  A 
NEWFOUNDLAND  DOG. 

When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth. 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  oi  woe, 
And  storied  urns  record  who  rests  below; 
When  all  is  done,  upon  the  tomb  is  seen. 
Not  what  he  was,  but  what  he  should  have  been: 
But  the  poor  dog,  in  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend. 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own. 
Who  labors,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him  alone, 
Unhonor'd  falls,  unnoticed  all  his  worth. 
Denied  in  heaven  the  soul  he  held  on  earth: 
While  man,  vain  insect !  hopes  to  be  forgiven, 
And  claims  himself  a  sole  exclusive  heaven. 
Oh  man  !  thou  feeble  tenant  of  an  hour, 
Debased  by  slavery,  or  corrupt  by  power, 
Who  knows  thee  well  must  quit  thee  with  disgust, 
Degraded  mass  of  animated  dust ! 
Thy  love  is  lust,  thy  friendship  all  a  cheat, 
Thy  smiles  hypocrisy,  thy  words  deceit ! 
By  nature  vile,  ennobled  but  by  name. 
Each  kindred  brute  might  bid  thee  blush  for  shame. 
Ye  !  who  perchance  behold  this  simple  urn. 
Pass  on — it  honors  none  you  wish  to  mourn: 
To  mark  a  friend's  remains  these  stones  arise; 
I  never  knew  but  one, — and  here  he  lies. 
Nbwstbad  Abbey,  N<yvember  30,  1808. 


TO  TIME. 

Time  !  on  whose  arbitrary  wing 

The  varying  hours  must  flag  or  fly, 
Whose  tardy  winter,  fleeting  spring. 

But  drag  or  drive  us  on  to  die — 

Hail  thou  !  who  on  my  birth  bestow'd 
Those  boons  to  all  that  know  thee  known; 

Yet  better  I  sustain  thy  load. 
For  now  I  bear  the  weight  alone. 

I  would  not  one  fond  heart  should  share 

The  bitter  moments  thou  hast  given; 
And  pardon  thee,  since  thou  couldst  spare 

All  that  I  loved,  to  peace  or  heaven. 

To  them  be  joy  or  rest,  on  me 

Thy  future  ills  shall  press  in  vain : 
I  nothing  owe  but  years  to  thee, 

A  debt  already  paid  in  pain. 

-* A* 


A 

t 

i 

^. 

«-J 

1 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.                        533 

Yet  even  that  pain  was  some  relief; 

It  felt,  but  still  forgot  thy  power: 
The  active  agony  of  grief 

Retards,  but  never  counts  the  hour. 

In  joy  I've  sigh'd  to  think  thy  flight 
Would  soon  subside  from  swift  to  slow, 

Thy  cloud  could  overcast  the  light, 
But  could  not  add  a  night  to  woe; 

For  then,  however  drear  and  dark 

My  soul  was  suited  to  thy  sky, 
One  star  alone  shot  forth  a  spark 

To  prove  thee  not— Eternity. 

That  beam  hath  sunk,  and  now  thou  art 
^                      A  blank;  a  thing  to  count  and  curse, 
Through  each  dull  tedious  trifling  part, 
Which  all  regret,  yet  all  rehearse. 

One  scene  even  thou  canst  not  deform; 

The  limit  of  thy  sloth  or  speed 
When  future  wanderers  bear  the  storm 

Which  we  shall  sleep  too  sound  to  heed: 

i 

r* 

y 

And  I  can  smile  to  think  how  weak 
Thine  eiforts  shortly  shall  be  shown. 

When  all  the  vengeance  thou  canst  wreak 
Must  fall  upon— a  nameless  stone. 

LINES  INSCRIBED  UPON  A  CUP  FORMED  FROM  A 
SKULL. 

Start  not— nor  deem  my  spirit  fled; 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaff 'd,  like  thee: 
I  died:  let  earth  my  bones  resign: 

Fill  up— thou  canst  not  injure  me; 
The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 
Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood; 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 
The  drink  of  gods,  than  reptile's  food. 

Where  once  my  wit,  perchance,  hath  shone, 

In  aid  of  others'  let  me  shine; 
And  when,  alas!  our  brains  are  gone. 

What  nobler  substitute  than  wine? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst:  another  race, 
When  thou  and  thine,  like  me,  are  sped, 

May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

*T 

H. 

r 

1^ 

1 

r 

1 

f 

624  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Why  not — since  through  life's  little  day 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce? 

Redeem'd  from  worms  and  wasting  clay, 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 
Newstbad  Abbey,  1808. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Titan!  to  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  sufferings  of  mortality. 

Seen  in  their  sad  reality, 
Were  not  as  things  that  gods  despise; 
What  was  thy  pity's  recompense? 
A  silent  suffering,  and  intense; 
The  rock,  the  vulture,  and  the  chain, 
All  that  the  proud  can  feel  of  pain, 
The  agony  they  do  not  show 
The  suffocating  sense  of  woe, 

Which  speaks  but  in  its  loneliness, 
And  then  is  jealous  lest  the  sky 
Should  have  a  listener,  nor  will  sigh 

Until  its  voice  is  echoless. 
Titan!  to  thee  the  strife  was  given 

Between  the  suffering  and  the  will, 

Which  torture  where  they  cannot  kill; 
And  the  inexorable  Heaven, 
And  the  deaf  tyranny  of  Fate, 
The  ruling  principle  of  Hate, 
Which  for  its  pleasure  doth  create 
The  things  it  may  annihilate, 
Refused  thee  even  the  boon  to  die; 
The  wretched  gift  eternity 
Was  thine— and  thou  hast  borne  it  well. 
All  that  the  Thunderer  wrung  from  thee 
Was  but  the  menace  which  flung  back 
On  him  the  torments  of  thy  rack; 
The  fate  thou  didst  so  well  foresee. 
But  would  not  to  appease  him  tell; 
And  in  thy  Silence  was  his  Sentence, 
And  in  his  Soul  a  vain  repentance, 
And  evil  dread  so  ill  dissembled. 
That  in  his  hand  the  lightnings  trembled. 

Thy  Godlike  crime  was  to  be  kind, 

l^o  render  with  thy  precept  less 

The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 
And  strengthen  Man  with  his  own  mind; 
But  baffled  as  thou  wert  from  high, 
Still  in  thy  patient  energy. 
In  the  enaurance,  and  repulse 

Of  thine  impenetrable  Spirit, 
Which  Earth  and  Heaven  could  not  convulse, 

A  mighty  lesson  we  inherit: 
Thou  art  a  symbol  and  a  sign 

To  Mortals  of  their  fate  and  force; 


*ih 


^ ^ ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  525 

Like  thee,  Man  is  in  part  divine, 
A  troubled  stream  from  a  pure  source; 

And  Man  in  portions  can  foresee 

His  own  funereal  destiny; 

His  wretchedness,  and  his  resistance, 

And  his  sad  unallied  existence: 

To  which  his  Spirit  may  oppose 

Itself— and  equal  to  all  woes, 
And  a  firm  will,  and  a  de^n  sense, 

Which  even  in  torture  can  descry 
Its  own  concentred  recompease, 

Triumphant  where  it  dares  uefy, 

And  making  death  a  Victoryl 
DiODATi,  July,  1816. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  TRAVELLERS'  BOOK  AT 
ORCHOMENUS. 

IN  THIS^OOK  A  TRAVELLER  HAD  WRITTEN: — 

*'  Fair  Albion,  smiling,  sees  her  son  depart, 
To  trace  the  birth  and  nursery  of  art: 
Noble  his  object,  glorious  is  his  aim ; 
He  comes  to  Athens,  and  he  writes  his  name!" 

EENEATH  WHICH  LORD  BYRON  INSERTED  THE  FOLLOWING:— 

The  modest  bard,  like  many  a  bard  unknown, 
Rhymes  on  our  names,  but  wisely  hides  his  own; 
But  yet,  whoe'er  he  be,  to  say  no  worse. 
His  name  would  bring  more  credit  than  his  verse. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  iPN  ALBUM,  AT  MALTA. 

As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 
Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by; 

Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 
May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye! 

And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 
Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year. 
Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead. 
And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 
September  14,  1809. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM  SESTOS  TO 
ABYDOS.* 
If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember?) 
To  cross  thy  stream,  broad  Hellespont! 

*  On  the  3d  of  May,  1810,  while  the  *'  Salsette  "  (Captain  Bathurst) 
was  lying  in  the  Dardanelles,  Lieutenant  Ekenhead  of  that  frigate 
and  the  writer  of  these  rhymes  swam  from  the  European  shore  to 
the  Asiatic— by  the  by,  from  Abydos  to  Sestos  would  have  been 
more  correct.  The  whole  distance  from  the  place  whence  we  start- 
ed to  our  landing  on  the  other  side,  including  the  length  we  were 
carried  by  the  current,  was  computed  by  those  on  board  the  frigate 


-t 


^^♦ 


"ii- 


626  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

If,  when  the  wintry  tempest  roar'd, 

He  sped  to  Hero,  nothing  loath. 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour'd, 

Fair  Venus!  how  I  pity  both! 

For  mc,  degenerate  modem  wretch, 
Though  m  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  cross' d  the  rapid  tide, 
According  to  the  doubtful  story, 
'         To  woo — and— Lord  knows  what  beside. 
And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory; 

'Twere  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best: 
Sad  mortals!  thus  the  gods  still  plague  youl 

He  lost  his  labor,  I  my  jest; 
For  he  was  drown'd,  and  I've  the  ague. 
May  9,  1810.  _^      % 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  FAMOUS  GREEK  WAR  SONG 

"  Aeure  naiSe^  tHiv  'EAAjjfwv."  * 

Sons  of  the  Greeks,  arise! 

The  glorious  hour's  gone  forth, 
And,  worthy  oi  such  ties. 

Display  who  gave  us  birth. 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  Greeks!  let  us  go 
In  arms  against  the  foe, 
Till  theu*  hated  blood  shall  flow 
In  a  river  past  our  feet. 

Then  manfully  despising 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  yoke. 
Let  your  country  see  you  rising. 

And  all  her  chains  are  broke. 

at  upwards  of  four  English  miles;  though  the  actual  breadth  is 
barely  one.  The  rapidity  of  the  current  is  such  that  no  boat  can 
row  directly  across,  and  ic  may,  in  some  measure,  be  estimated  from 
the  circumstance  of  the  whole  distance  being  accomplished  by  one 
of  the  parties  in  an  hour  and  five,  and  by  the  other  in  an  hour  and 
ten  minutes.  The  water  was  extremely  cold,  from  the  melting  of 
the  mountain  snows.  About  three  weeks  before,  in  April,  we  had 
made  an  attempt;  but  having  ridden  all  the  way  from  the  Troadthe 
same  morning,  and  the  water  being  of  an  icy  dullness,  we  foimd  it 
necessary  to  postpone  the  completion  till  the  frigate  anchored  be- 
low the  castles,  when  we  swam  the  straits,  as  just  stated:  entering 
a  considerable  way  above  the  European,  and  landing  below  the 
Asiatic  fort.  Chevalier  says  that  a  young  Jew  swam  the  same  dis- 
tance for  his  mistress;  and  Oliver  mentions  its  having  been  done 
by  a  Neapolitan;  but  our  consul,  Tarragona,  remembered  neither 
of  these  circumstances,  and  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  the  attempt. 
A  number  of  thrt  "Salsette's"  crew  were  known  to  have  accom- 
plished a  greater  distance;  and  the  only  thing  that  sui-prised  me 
was,  that,  as  doubts  had  been  entertained  as  to  the  truth  of  Lean- 
der's  story,  no  traveller  had  ever  endeavored  to  ascertain  Its  practi- 
cability. 

♦  The  song  was  written  by  Riga,  who  perished  In  the  attempt  to 
revolutionize  Greece.  This  translation  is  as  literal  as  the  author  could 
make  it  in  verse.    It  is  of  the  same  measure  as  that  of  the  original. 


^ — ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  527 

Brave  shades  of  chiefs  and  sages, 

Behold  the  coming  strife! 
Hellenes  of  past  ages, 

Oh,  start  again  to  life! 
At  the  sound  of  my  trumpet,  breaking 

Your  sleep,  oh,  join  with  me! 
And  the  seven-hill 'd  city  seeking,* 

Fight,  conquer,  till  we're  free. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  &c. 

Sparta,  Sparta,  why  in  slumbers 

Lethargic  dost  thou  lie? 
Awake,  and  join  thy  numbers 

With  Athens,  old  ally! 
Leonidas  recalling, 

That  chief  of  ancient  song, 
"Who  saved  ye  once  from  falling, 

The  terrible!  the  strong! 
Who  made  that  bold  diversion 

In  old  Thermopylae. 
And  warring  with  the  Persian 

Tcfkeep  his  country  free; 
With  his  three  hundred  waging 

The  battle,  long  he  stood, 
And  like  a  lion  raging, 

Expired  in  seas  of  blood. 

Sons  of  Greeks,  &c. 


THE  SPELL  IS  BROKE,  THE  CHARM  IS  FLOWN  I 

WRITTEN  AT  ATHENS,    JANUARY  16,   1810.. 

The  spell  is  broke,  the  charm  is  flown! 

Thus  is  it  with  life's  fitful  fever: 
We  madly  smile  when  we  should  groan; 

Delirium  is  our  best  deceiver. 
Each  lucid  interval  of  thought 

Recalls  the  woes  of  Nature's  charter. 
And  he  that  acts  as  wise  men  ought. 

But  lives,  as  saints  have  died,  a  martyr. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN   ON  PASSING    THE    AMBRACIAN   GULF.f 

Through  cloudless  skies  on  silvery  sheen. 
Full  beams  the  moon  on  Actium's  coast; 

*  Constantinople, 

+  The  lady  referred  to  in  this  and  the  two  foUowinsr  pieces— the 
wife  of  Mr.  Spencer  Smith,  and  daughter  of  Baron  Herbert,  Aus- 
trian ambassador  at  Constantinople,  where  she  was  born — was  a 
very  remarkable  person,  and  experienced  a  variety  of  striking  ad- 
ventures. She  was  unhappy  in  her  marriage,  yet  of  unblemished 
reputation;  had  engaged  m  some  plots  against  Bonaparte,  which 
excited  his  vengeance;  was  made  prisoner,  but  subsequently  es- 
caped; afterward  suffered  shipwreck— and  all  before  she  was  25 
years  of  age.  The  poet  met  her  at  Malta,  on  her  way  to  England  to 
join  her  husband;  and  these  poems,  and  a  reference  to  her  in 
"Childe  Harold,"  are  memorials  of  their  brief  acquaintance. 


t 


^H 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  on  these  waves,  for  Egypt's  queen, 
The  ancient  world  was  won  and  lost. 

And  now  upon  the  scene  I  look. 

The  azure  grave  of  many  a  Roman; 
Where  stem  Ambition  once  forsook 

His  wavering  crown  to  follow  woman. 
Florence!  whom  I  will  love  as  well 

As  ever  yet  was  said  or  sung, 
(Since  Orpheus  sang  his  spouse  from  hell) 

Whilst  thou  art  fair  and  1  am  young; 

Sweet  Florence!  those  were  pleasant  times, 
When  worlds  were  staked  for  ladies'  eyes: 

Had  bards  as  many  realms  as  rhymes, 
Thy  charms  might  raise  new  Antonies. 

Though  Fate  forbids  such  things  to  be, 
Yet,  by  thine  eyes  and  ringlets  curl'dl 

I  cannot  lose  a  world  for  thee, 
But  would  not  lose  thee  for  a  world. 


November  14, 1809. 


TO  FLORENCE. 


0  Lady!  when  I  left  the  shore. 
The  distant  shore  which  gave  me  birth, 

1  hardly  thought  to  grieve  once  more. 
To  quit  another  spot  on  earth: 

Yet  here,  amidst  this  barren  isle, 
•  Where  panting  Nature  droops  the  head. 
Where  only  thou  art  seen  to  smile, 
I  view  my  parting  hour  with  dread. 

Though  far  from  Albin's  craggy  shore, 

Divided  by  the  dark  blue  main; 
A  few  brief,  rolling  seasons  o'er, 

Perchance  I  view  her  cliffs  again: 

But  wheresoe'er  I  now  may  roam, 
Through  scorching  clime,  and  varied  sea, 

Though  Time  restore  me  to  my  home, 
I  ne'er  shall  bend  mine  eyes  on  thee: 

On  thee,  in  whom  at  once  conspire 
All  charms,  which  heedless  hearts  can  move, 

Whom  but  to  see  is  to  admire. 
And,  oh!  forgive  the  word — to  love. 

Forerlve  the  word,  in  one  who  ne'er 

With  such  a  word  can  more  offend; 
And  since  thy  heart  I  cannot  share, 

Believe  me,  what  I  am,  thy  friend. 

And  who  so  cold  as  look  on  thee. 

Thou  lovely  wanderer,  and  be  less? 
Nor  be,  what  man  should  ever  be, 

The  friend  of  Beauty  in  distress? 

♦* ' *- 


*— : *- 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  539 

Ah!  who  would  think  that  form  had  pass'd 
Through  Danger's  most  destructive  path, 

Had  braved  the  death-wing'd  tempest's  blast, 
And  'scaped  a  tyrant's  fiercer  wrath? 

Lady  I  when  I  shall  view  the  walls 

Where  free  Byzantium  once  arose, 
And  Stamboul's  Oriental  halls 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  now  enclose; 

Though  mightiest  in  the  lists  of  fame 

That  glorious  city  still  shall  be; 
On  me  'twill  hold  a  dearer  claim. 

As  spot  of  thy  nativity: 

And  thou^rh  I  bid  thee  now  farewell, 

When  I  behold  that  wondrous  scene, 
Since  where  thou  art  I  may  not  dwell, 
'Twill  soothe  to  be,  where  thou  hast  been. 
September.  1809. 


STANZAS 

COMPOSED     DURING     A     THUNDER-STORM,     AND     WHILE     BEWILr 
DERED  NEAR  MOUNT  PINDUS  IN  ALBANIA. 

Chill  and  murk  is  the  nightly  blast, 

Where  Pindus'  mountains  rise. 
And  angry  clouds  are  pouring  fast 

The  vengeance  of  the  skies. 

Our  guides  are  gone,  our  hope  is  lost. 

And  lightnings,  as  they  play, 
But  show  where  rocks  our  path  have  crost. 

Or  gild  the  torrent's  spray. 

Is  yon  a  cot  I  saw,  though  low? 

When  lightning  broke  the  gloom — 
How  welcome  were  its  shade! — ah,  no! 

'Tis  but  a  Turkish  tomb. 

Through  sounds  of  foaming  waterfalls, 

I  hear  a  voice  exclaim — 
My  way-worn  countryman,  who  calls 

On  distant  England's  name. 

A  shot  is  fired — by  foe  or  friend? 

Another — 'tis  to  tell 
The  mountain-peasants  to  descend, 

And  lead  us  where  they  dwell. 

Oh!  who  in  such  a  night  will  dare 

To  tempt  the  wilderness? 
And  who  'mid  thunder-peals  can  hear 

Our  signal  of  distress? 

And  who  that  heard  our  shouts  would  rise, 

To  try  the  dubious  road? 
Nor  rather  deem  from  nightly  cries 

That  outlaws  were  abroad. 
w 

♦A- — _ m^ 


i 


iK 


580  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Clouds  burst,  skies  flash,  oh,  dreadful  hour! 

More  fiercely  pours  the  storm! 
Yet  here  one  thought  has  still  the  power 

To  keep  my  bosom  warm. 

While  wandering  through  each  broken  path 
O'er  brake  and  craggy  brow; 

While  elements  exhaust  their  wrath, 
Sweet  Florence,  where  art  thou? 

Not  on  the  sea,  not  on  the  sea, 
Thy  bark  hath  long  been  gone: 

Oh,  may  the  storm  that  pours  on  me 
Bow  down  my  head  alone! 

Full  swiftly  blew  the  swift  Siroc, 

When  last  I  press'd  thy  lip; 
And  long  ere  now,  with  foaming  shock, 

Impeird  thy  gallant  ship. 

Now  thou  art  safe;  nay,  long  ere  now 
Hast  trod  the  shore  of  Spain; 

'Twere  hard  if  aught  so  fair  as  thou 
Should  linger  on  the  main. 

And  since  I  now  remember  thee 

In  darkness  and  in  dread. 
As  in  those  hours  of  revelry 

Which  mirth  and  music  sped; 

Do  thou,  amid  the  fair  white  walls, 

If  Cadiz  yet  be  free. 
At  times,  from  out  her  latticed  halls, 

Look  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea; 

Then  think  upon  Calypso's  isles, 

Endear' d  by  days  gone  by; 
To  others  give  a  thousand  smiles. 

To  me  a  single  sigh. 

And  when  the  admiring  circle  mark 

The  paleness  of  thy  face. 
A  half-form'd  tear,  a  transient  spark 

Of  melancholy  grace. 

Again  thou'lt  smile,  and  blushing  shun 

Some  coxcomb's  raillery; 
Nor  own  for  once  thou  thought' st  on  one, 

Who  ever  thinks  on  thee. 

Though  smile  and  sigh  alike  are  vain. 
When  sever'd  hearts  repine, 

My  spirit  flies  o'er  mount  and  main. 
And  mourns  in  search  of  thine. 


— ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  531 


ON  BEING  ASKED  WHAT  WAS    THE  "ORIGIN 
OF  LOVE." 

The  "  Origin  of  Love!" — Ah,  why 

That  cruel  question  ask  of  me, 
When  thou  may'st  read  in  many  an  eye 

He  starts  to  life  on  seeing  thee? 

And  shouldst  thou  seek  his  end  to  know: 
My  heart  forebodes,  my  fears  fof%see, 

He'll  linger  long  in  silent  woe; 
But  live— until  I  cease  to  be. 


IMPROMPTU,  IN  REPLY  TO  A  FRIEND. 

When,  from  the  heart  where  Sorrow;  sits, 

Her  dusky  shadow  mounts  too  high, 
And  o'er  the  changing  aspect  flits, 

And  clouds  the  brow,  or  fills  the  eye; 
Heed  not  that  gloom,  which  soon  shall  sink: 

My  thoughts  their  dungeon  know  too  well- 
Back  to  my  breast  the  wanderers  shrink 

And  droop  within  their  silent  cell. 
September,  1813. 

TO  SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

Absent  or  present,  still  to  thee, 
My  friend,  what  magic  spells  belong! 

As  all  can  tell,  who  share,  like  me, 
In  turn  thy  converse,  and  thy  song. 

But  when  the  dreaded  hour  shall  come. 
By  Friendship  ever  deem'd  too  nigh. 

And  "  Memory  "  o'er  her  Druid's  tomb 
Shall  weep  that  aught  of  thee  can  die, 

How  fondly  will  she  then  repay 
Thy  homage  offer' d  at  her  shrine, 

And  blend,  while  ages  roll  away, 
Her  name  immortally  with  thine  ! 

Api-U  19,  1812. 


CONDOLATORY  ADDRESS 

TO  SARAH,  COUNTESS  OF  JERSEY,  ON  THE  PRINCE  REGENT'S 
RETURNING  HER  PICTURE  TO  MRS.  MEB. 

When  the  vain  triumph  of  the  imperial  lord, 
Whom  servile  Rome  obey'd,  and  yet  abhorr'd. 
Gave  to  the  vulgar  gaze  each  glorious  bust, 
That  left  a  likeness  of  the  brave,  or  just; 
What  most  admired  each  scrutinizing  eye 
Of  all  that  deck'd  that  passing  pageantry? 
What  spread  from  face  to  face  that  wondering  air? 
The  thought  of  Brutus— for  his  was  not  there! 
That  absence  proved  his  worth, — that  absence  fix'd 
FJB  memory  on  the  longing  mind,  unmix'd; 

♦* — — i* 


4K 


532  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  more  decreed  his  glory  to  endure 
Than  all  a  gold  Colossus  could  secure. 

If  thus,  fair  Jersey,  our  desiring  gaze 
Search  for  thy  form,  in  vain  and  mute  amaze, 
Amidst  those  pictured  charms,  whose  loveliness, 
Bright  though  they  be,  thine  own  had  render'd  less; 
If  he,  that  vain  old  man,  whom  truth  admits 
Heir  of  his  father's  crown,  and  of  his  wits, 
If  his  corpipted  eye,  and  wither'd  heart. 
Could  with  thy  gentle  image  bear  depart; 
That  tasteless  shame  be  his,  and  ours  the  grief 
To  gaze  on  Beauty's  band  without  its  chief:  0 

Yet  comfort  still  one  selfish  thought  imparts, 
We  lose  the  portrait,  but  preserve  our  hearts. 

What  can  his  vaulted  gallery  now  disclose? 
A  garden  with  all  flowers — except  the  rose; — 
A  fount  that  only  wants  its  living  stream; — 
A  night,  with  every  star,  save  Dian's  beam. 
Lost  to  our  eyes  the  present  forms  shall  be, 
That  turn  from  tracing  them  to  dream  of  thee; 
And  more  on  that  recall'd  resemblance  pause, 
Than  all  he  shall  not  force  on  our  applause. 

Long  may  thy  yet  meridian  lustre  shine, 
With  all  that  Virtue  asks  of  Homage  thine: 
The  symmetry  of  youth — the  grace  of  mien — 
The  eye  that  gladdens — and  the  brow  serene; 
The  glossy  darkness  of  that  clustering  hair, 
Which  shades,  yet  shows  that  forehead  more  than  fair! 
Each  glance  that  wins  us,  and  the  life  that  throws 
A  spell  which  will  not  let  our  looks  repose, 
But  turn  to  gaze  again,  and  find  anew 
Some  charm  that  well  rewards  another  view. 
These  are  not  lessen 'd,  these  are  still  as  bright, 
Albeit  too  dazzling  for  a  dotard's  sight; 
And  those  must  wait  till  every  charm  is  gone, 
To  please  the  paltry  heart  that  pleases  none: — 
That  dull  cold  sensualist,  whose  sickly  eye 
In  envious  dimness  paes'd  thy  portrait  by;- 
Who  rack'd  his  little  spirit  to  combine 
Its  hate  of  Freedom's  loveliness,  and  thine. 
Aiif/mt,  1814. 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY  ON  LEAVING  ENGLAND.* 

'Tis  done — and  shivering  in  the  gale 
The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail; 
And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast. 
Loud  sings  on  high  the  freshening  blast; 
And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

But  could  I  be  what  I  have  been, 
And  could  I  see  what  I  have  seen — 
Could  I  repose  upon  the  breast 

*  Mrs.  Mustei-s,  formerly  Mary  Chaworth. 


^K 


*i 

l 

u 

^^ 

r^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.                       583 

'- 

Which  once  my  warmest  wishes  blest— 
I  should  not  seek  another  zone 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

'Tis  long  since  I  beheld  that  eye 
Which  gave  me  bliss  or  misery; 
And  I  have  striven,  but  in  vain, 
Never  to  think  of  it  again; 
For  though  I  fly  from  Albion, 
I  still  can  only  love  but  one. 

As  some  lone  bird,  without  a  mate, 
My  weary  heart  is  desolate; 
I  look  around,  and  cannot  trace 
One  friendly  smile,  or  welcome  face. 
And  even  in  crowds  am  still  alone. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  resting-place; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun. 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

The  poorest,  veriest  wretch  on  earth 
Still  finds  some  hospitable  hearth. 
Where  Friendship's  or  Love's  softer  glow 
May  smile  in  joy  or  soothe  in  woe; 
But  friend  or  lover  I  have  none. 
Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 

I  go — ^but  wheresoe'er  I  flee, 
There's  not  an  eye  will  weep  for  me; 
There's  not  a  kind  congenial  heart. 
Where  I  can  claim  the  meanest  part; 
Nor  thou,  who  hast  my  hopes  undone. 
Wilt  sigh,  although  I  love  but  one. 

To  think  of  every  early  scene. 

Of  what  we  are,  and  what  we've  been, 

Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe — 

But  mine,  alas  !  has  stood  the  blow; 

Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun. 

And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see. 
And  why  that  early  love  was  crost, 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 
Have  loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

I've  tried  another's  fetters  too. 
With  charms  perchance  as  fair  to  view; 
And  I  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  ought  but  one. 

.^j 

* 

1  ^ 

^ 

P 

1 

^ 

534  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

'Twould  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
And  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu; 
Yet  wish  I  not  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  that  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
Though  wheresoe'er  my  bark  may  run, 
I  love  but  thee,  I  love  but  one. 
1809. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

TO  A.  LADY. 


"When  Man,  expell'd  from  Eden's  bowers, 
A  moment  linger'd  near  the  gate, 

Each  scene  recall'd  the  vanish'd  hours, 
And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

But,  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 

Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

Thus,  lady  !  will  it  be  with  me, 
And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 

For,  whilst  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before. 

In  flight  I  shall  be  surely  wise, 
Escaping  from  temptation's  snare; 

I  cannot  view  my  paradise 
Without  a  wish  to  enter  there. 
December  2,  1808. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken. 

And  light  is  thy  fame; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken. 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knoll  to  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 


41- 


^f- 


1808. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  535 

Thev  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well: — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years. 
How  should  I  greet  thee? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


t 


LINES  TO  A  LADY  WEEPING.* 

Weep,  daughter  of  a  royal  line, 
A  sire's  disgrace,  a  realm's  decay; 

Ahl  happy  if  each  tear  of  thine 
Could  wash  a  father's  fault  away! 

Weep — for  thy  tears  are  Virtue's  tears- 
Auspicious  to  these  suffering  isles; 

And  be  each  drop  in  future  years 
Repaid  thee  by  the  people's  smiles  I 
March,  1812. 


WINDSOR  POETICS. 


Lines  composed  on  the  occasion  of  his  Royal  Highness  the  Prince 
Regent  oeing  seen  standing  between  the  coflfins  of  Henry  VIII. 
and  Charles  I.,  in  the  royal  vault  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties, 
By  headless  Charles  here  heartless  Henry  lies; 
Between  them  stands  another  sceptred  thing — 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king: 
Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 
— In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life: 
Justice  and  death  have  mix'd  their  dust  in  vain. 
Each  royal  vampire  wakes  to  life  again. 
Ah,  what  can  tombs  avail! — since  these  disgorge 
The  blood  and  dust  of  both — to  mould  a  George. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS 

ON  THE  DEATH  OP  SIB  PETER  PARKER,  BABT. 

There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 
A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 
And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

*The  Princess  Charlotte. 


* 


r 


^tr 


536  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For  them  is  Sorrow's  purest  sigh 
O'er  Ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent: 

In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 
All  earth  becomes  their  monumenti 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 
An  epitaph  on  every  tongue: 

The  present  hours,  the  future  age, 
For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 
Grows  hush'd,  tfieir  name  the  only  sound; 

While  deep  Remembrance  pours  to  Worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 
Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 

Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot? 
Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose? 

And,  gallant  Parker!  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame  shall  be; 

And  early  valor,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

Bat  there  are  breasts  that  bleed  with  thee 
In  woe,  that  glory  cannot  quell; 

And  shuddering  hear  of  victory, 

Where  one  so  dear,  so  dauntless,  fell. 

Where  shall  they  turn  to  mourn  thee  less? 

When  cease  to  hear  thy  cherish'd  name? 
Time  cannot  teach  forgetfulness. 

While  Grief's  full  heart  is  fed  by  Fame. 

Alas!  for  them,  though  not  for  thee, 
They  cannot  choose  but  weep  the  more; 

Deep  for  the  dead  the  grief  must  be. 
Who  ne'er  gave  cause  to  mourn  before. 


f 


A  FRAGMENT. 


Could  I  remount  the  river  of  my  years, 
To  the  first  fountain  of  our  smiles  and  tears, 
I  would  not  trace  again  the  stream  of  hours 
Between  their  outworn  banks  of  wither'd  flowers, 
But  bid  it  flow  as  now — until  it  glides 
Into  the  number  of  the  nameless  tides.  .  .  . 

What  is  this  Death?— a  quiet  of  the  heart? 
The  whole  of  that  of  which  we  are  a  part? 
For  life  is  but  a  vision— what  I  see 
Of  all  which  lives  alone  is  life  to  me. 
And  being  so — the  absent  are  the  dead. 
Who  haunt  us  from  tranquillity,  and  spread 
A  dreary  shroud  around  us,  and  invest 
With  sad  remembrancers  our  hours  of  rest. 


^K 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  CS? 

The  absent  are  the  dead,  for  they  are  cold, 
And  ne'er  can  be  what  once  we  did  behold; 
And  they  are  changed,  and  cheerless, — or  if  yet 
The  unforgotten  do  not  all  forget, 
Since  thus  divided — equal  must  it  be 
If  the  deep  barrier  be  of  earth,  or  sea; 
It  may  be  both— but  one  day  end  it  must, 
In  the  dark  union  of  insensate  dust. 

The  under-earth  inhabitants — are  they 
But  mingled  millions  decomposed  to  clay? 
The  ashes  of  a  thousand  ages  spread 
Wherever  man  has  trodden  or  shall  tread? 
Or  do  they  in  their  silent  cities  dwell 
Each  in  his  incommunicative  cell? 
Or  have  they  their  own  language?  and  a  sense 
Of  breathless  being?— darken'd  and  intense 
As  midnight  in  her  solitude? — O  Earth! 
Where  are  the  past?— and  wherefore  had  they  birth? 
The  dead  are  thy  inheritors — and  we 
But  bubbles  on  thy  surface;  and  the  key 
Of  thy  profundity  is  in  the  grave. 
The  ebon  portal  of  thy  peopled  cave, 
Where  I  would  walk  in  spirit,  and  behold 
Our  elements  resolved  to  thiugs  untold. 
And  fathom  hidden  wonders,  and  explore 
The  essence  of  great  bosoms  now  no  more  — 
DiODATi,  July,  1816. 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

"  O  Lachrymai'um  fons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  animo:  quater 
Felix!  in  imo  qui  scatenteni 
Pectore  te,  pia  Nympha,  sensit." 

Gray's  Foeniata, 

There  's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes  away. 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull  decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which  fades  so 

fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of  happiness 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess: 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in  vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never  stretch  again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself  comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its  own; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our  tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the  ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  distract  the 

breast. 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former  hope  of 

rest, 
'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 
All  green  and  wildly-fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray  beneath. 

« m- 


^ ^ 

538  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Oh!  could  1  feel  as  I  have  felt, — or  be  what  I  have  been, 

Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  vanish'd  scene; 

As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish  though  they 

be, 
So  'midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would  flow  to  me. 
March,  1815. 


FILL  THE  GOBLET  AGAIN. 

A  SONG. 

Fill  the  goblet  again!  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core; 

Let  us  drink! — who  would  not? — since,  through  lif e  s  varied 

round. 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 
I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply: 
I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye; 
I  have  loved!— who  has  not? — but  what  heart  can  declare, 
That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there? 
In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends!— who  has  not?— but  what  tongue  will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine!  are  as  faithful  as  thou? 
The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange. 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam— thou  never  canst  change: 
Thou  grow'st  old— who  does  not?— but  on  earth  what  appears. 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years? 
Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow. 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below. 
We  are  jealous! — who  's  not? — thou  hast  no  such  alloy; 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 
Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past. 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last; 
There  we  flnd— do  we  not?— in  the  flow  of  the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 
When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  Misery's  triumph  commenced  over  Mirth, 
Hope  was  "left— was  she  not? — but  the  goblet  we  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 
Long  life  to  the  grape! — for  when  summer  is  flown, 
The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own: 
We  must  die — who  shall  not? — May  our  sms  be  forgiven. 
And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 


REMEMBER  THEE!  REMEMBER  THEE! 

Remember  thee!  remember  thee! 

Till  Lethe  quench  life's  burning  stream 
Remorse  and  shame  shall  clin^  to  thee. 

And  haunt  thee  like  a  feverish  dream! 
Remember  thee!    Ay,  doubt  it  not, 

Thy  husband  too  shall  tliink  of  thee: 
By  neither  shalt  thou  be  forgot, 

Thou  false  to  him,  thou  fiend  to  me! 


*ii- 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  A  CORNELIAN  HEART  WHICH  WAS  BROKEN. 

Ill-fated  Heart!  and  can  it  be 
That  thou  shouldst  thus  be  rent  in  twain? 

Have  years  of  care  for  thine  and  thee 
Alilie  been  all  employ'd  in  vain? 

Yet  precious  seems  each  shatter'd  part, 

And  every  fragment  dearer  grown, 
Since  he  who  wears  thee  feels  thou  art 

A  fitter  emblem  of  his  own. 


MONODY 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RT.  HON.  R,  B.  SHERIDAN, 

SPOKEN  AT  DRURY-LANE  THEATRE. 

When  the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 
In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away, 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 
With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 
Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime, 
Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 
The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but  weep, 
A  holy  concord — and  a  bright  regret, 
A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set? 
'Tis  not  harsh  sorrow — but  a  tenderer  woe, 
Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below. 
Felt  without  bitterness — but  full  and  clear, 
A  sweet  dejection— a  transparent  tear, 
Unmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shed  without  shame — and  secret  without  pain. 

Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills. 
So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes. 
When  all  of  genius  which  can  perish  dies. 
A  mighty  Spirit  is  eclipsed— a  Power 
Hath  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness— to  whose  hour 
Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd— no  name, 
Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  Fame! 
The  flash  of  Wit— the  bright  Intelligence, 
The  beam  of  Song— the  blaze  of  Eloquence, 
Set  with  their  Sun— but  still  have  left  behind 
The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  Mind; 
Fruits  of  a  genial  morn,  and  glorious  noon, 
A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon. 
But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 
These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul, 
Which  all  embraced — and  lighten 'd  over  all. 
To  cheer— to  pierce — to  please- or  to  appall. 


* 


i. 


^ 

540  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

From  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board, 

Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord; 

In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied, 

The  praised — the  proud — who  made  his  praise  their  pride. 

When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan 

Arose  to  Heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 

His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 

The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God! 

Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips — and  blazed 

Till  vanquish'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 

And  here,  ohl  here,  where  yet  all  young  and  warm, 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm. 
The  matchless  dialogue — the  deathless  wit, 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit; 
The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  Fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought. 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat: 
A  halo  of  the  light"  of  other  days. 
Which  still  the  splendor  of  its  orb  betrays. 

But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  Wisdom  yields  a  base  delight. 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  bom  their  own, 
Still  let  them  pause— ah!  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  Vice  might  be  but  Woe. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  flx'd  for  ever  to  detract  or  praise; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name. 
And  folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  Fame. 
The  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel — accuser — judge — and  spy, 
The  foe — the  fool — the  jealous — and  the  vain, 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  others'  pain, 
Behold  the  host!  delighting  to  deprave, 
Who  track  the  steps  of  glory  to  the  grave. 
Watch  every  fault  that  daring  Genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardor  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 
And  pile  the  pyramid  of  Calumny! 
These  are  his  portion— but  if  join'd  to  these 
Gaunt  Poverty  should  league  with  deep  Disease, 
If  the  high  Spirit  must  forget  to  soar. 
And  stoop  to  strive  with  Misery  at  the  door, 
To  soothe  Indignity— and  face  to  face 
Meet  sordid  Rage — and  wrestle  with  Disgrace, 
To  find  in  Hope  but  the  renew'd  caress, 
The  serpent-fold  of  further  Faithlessness:— 
If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail. 
What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail? 
Breasts  to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 
Bear  hearts  electric — charged  with  Arc  from  neaven, 

*m «-^ 


, ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  541 

Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn, 
By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  home, 
Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Thoughts  which  have  turn' d  to  thunder— Bcorch— and  burst 

But  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene 
Such  things  should  be— if  such  have  ever  been; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 
To  give  the  tribute  Glory  need  not  ask. 
To  mourn  the  vanish'd  beam — and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  Orators!  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  Hero  of  your  field! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  I'hreel 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  Immortality! 
Ye  Bards!  to  whom  the  Drama's  Muse  is  dear, 
He  was  your  master — emulate  him  here  ! 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence! 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence! 
While  powers  of  mind  almost  of  boundless  range,    ^ 
Complete  in  kind,  as  various  in  their  change. 
While  Eloquence— Wit— Poesy— and  Mirth, 
That  humble  Harmonist  of  care  on  Earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls — while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  Merit's  proud  pre-eminence. 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness — ^long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain. 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die — ^in  moulding  Sheridan. 
DiODATi,  July  17,  1816. 


ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN  AT    THE    OPENING    OF    DRURY-LANE    THEATRE,     SATUR' 
DAT,    OCTOBER  10,   1812. 

In  one  dread  night  our  city  saw,  and  sigh'd, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  the  Drama's  tower  of  pride; 
In  one  short  hour  beheld  the  blazing  fane, 
Apollo  sink,  and  Shakspeare  cease  to  reign. 

Ye  who  beheld  (oh!  sight  admired  and  moum'd, 
Whose  radiance  mock'd  the  ruin  it  adorn'd!) 
Through  clouds  of  fire  the  massive  fragments  riven, 
Like  Israel's  pillar,  chase  the  night  from  heaven: 
Saw  the  long  column  of  revolving  flames 
Shake  its  red  shadow  o'er  the  startled  Thames, 
While  thousands,  thronged  around  the  burning  dome, 
Shrank  back  appaU'd,  and  trembled  for  their  home, 
As  glared  the  volumed  blaze,  and  ghastly  shone 
The  skies,  with  lightnings  awful  as  their  own, 
Till  blackening  ashes  and  the  lonely  wall 
Usurp'd  the  Muse's  realm,  and  mark'd  her  fall; 
Say— shall  this  new,  nor  less  aspiring  pile, 
Rear'd  where  once  rose  the  mightiest  in  our  isle, 
Know  the  same  favor  which  the  former  knew, 
A  shrine  for  Shakspeare — worthy  him  and  you? 

♦* *- 


iK 


543  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Yes — it  shall  be — the  magic  of  that  name 
Defies  the  scythe  of  Time,  the  torch  of  Flame; 
On  the  same  spot  still  consecxates  the  scene, 
And  bids  the  Drama  be  where  she  hath  been: 
This  fabric's  birth  attests  the  potent  spell — 
Lidulge  our  honest  pride,  and  say,  Hmo  voeUf 

As  soars  this  fane  to  emulate  the  last, 
Oh!  might  we  draw  our  omens  from  the  past, 
Some  hour  propitious   to  our  prayers  may  boast 
Names  such  as  hallow  still  the  dome  we  lost. 
On  Drunr  first  your  Siddons'  thrilling  art 
O'erwhelm'd  the  gentlest,  storm'd  the  sternest  heart. 
On  Drury,  Garrick's  latest  laurels  grew; 
Here  your  last  tears  retiring  Roscius  drew: 
Sigh'd  his  last  thanks,  and  wept  his  last  adieu; 
But  still  for  living  wit  the  wreaths  may  bloom, 
That  only  waste  their  odors  o'er  the  tomb. 
Such  Druiy  claim'd  and  claims— nor  you  refuse 
One  tribute  to  revive  his  slumbering  muse; 
With  garlands  deck  your  own  Menander's  head! 
Nor  hoard  your  honors  idly  for  the  dead! 

Dear  are  the  days  which  made  our  annals  bright, 
Ere  Garrick  fled,  or  Brinsley  ceased  to  write. 
Heirs  to  their  labors,  like  all  high-born  heirs, 
Vain  of  our  ancestry  as  they  of  tfieirs  ; 
While  thus  Remembrance  borrows  Banquo's  glass 
To  claim  the  sceptred  shadows  as  they  pass. 
And  we  the  mirror  hold;  where  imaged  shine 
Immortal  names,  emblazon'd  on  our  line, 
Pause — ere  their  feebler  offspring  you  condemn, 
Reflect  how  hard  the  task  to  rival  them! 

Friends  of  the  stage!  to  whom  both  Players  and  Plays 
Must  sue  alike  for  pardon  or  for  praise. 
Whose  judging  voice  and  eye  alone  direct 
The  boundless  power  to  cherish  or  reject; 
If  e'er  frivolity  has  led  to  fame, 
And  made  us  blush  that  you  forebore  to  blame; 
If  e'er  the  sinking  stage  could  condescend 
To  soothe  the  sickly  taste  it  dare  not  mend, 
All  past  reproach  may  present  scenes  refute, 
And  censure,  wisely  loud,  be  justly  mute! 
Oh !  since  your  flat  stamps  the  Drama's  laws, 
Forbear  to  mock  us  with  misplaced  applause; 
So  pride  shall  doubly  nerve  the  actor  s  powers, 
And  reason's  voice  be  echoed  back  by  ours! 

This  greeting  o'er,  the  ancient  rule  obey'd. 
The  Drama's  homage  by  her  herald  paid. 
Receive  mir  welcome  too,  whose  every  tone 
Springs  from  our  hearts,  and  fain  would  win  your  own. 
The  curtain  rises— may  our  stage  unfold 
Scenes  not  unworthy  Drury's  days  of  old! 
Britons  our  judges.  Nature  for  our  guide, 
Still  may  wc  please — long,  long  may  you  preside. 


♦4t 


^ ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  643 

ON  REVISITINa  HARROW.* 

Here  once  engaged  the  stranger's  view, 
Young  Friendship's  record  simply  traced; 

Few  were  her  words,  but  yet,  though  few, 
Resentment's  hand  the  line  defaced. 

Deeply  she  cut — but  not  erased. 

The  characters  were  still  so  plain, 
That  Friendship  once  return'd  and  gazed— 

Till  Memory  hail'd  the  words  again. 

Repentance  placed  them  as  before; 

Forgiveness  join'd  her  gentle  name; 
So  fair  the  inscription  seem'd  once  more, 

That  Friendship  thought  it  still  the  same. 

Thus  might  the  record  now  have  been; 

But  ah!  in  spite  of  Hope's  endeavor, 
Or  Friendship's  tears,  Pride  rush'd  between, 

And  blotted  out  the  line  for  ever. 


THE  ADIEU. 


WRITTEN    UNDER    THE    IMPRESSION    THAT   THE  AUTHOR  WOULD 
SOON  DIE. 

Adieu,  thou  Hill!   where  early  joy 

Spread  roses  o'er  my  brow; 
Where  Science  seeks  each  loitering  boy 

With  knowledge  to  endow. 
Adieu,  my  youthful  friends  or  foes. 
Partners  of  former  bliss  or  woes; 

No  more  through  Ida's  paths  we  stray; 
Soon  must  I  share  the  gloomy  cell, 
Whose  ever-slumbering  inmates  dwell 

Unconscious  of  the  ^ay. 

Adieu,  ye  hoary  Regal  Fanes, 
^      Ye  spires  of  Granta's  vale, 

WTiere  Learning  robed  in  sable  reigns, 

And  Melancholy  pale. 
Ye  comrades  of  the  jovial  hour. 
Ye  tenants  of  the  classic  bower, 

On  Cama's  verdant  margin  placed, 
Adieu!  while  memory  still  is  mine. 
For,  offerings  on  Oblivion's  shrine. 

These  scenes  must  be  eifaced. 

Adieu,  ye  mountains  of  the  clime 

Where  grew  my  youthful  years; 
Where  Loch  na  Garr  in  snows  sublime 

His  giant  summit  rears. 

♦Some  years  a.^o.  when  at  Harrow,  a  friend  of  the  author  en- 
graved on  a  particular  spot  the  names  of  both,  with  a  few  additional 
words,  as  a  memorial.  Afterwards,  on  receiving  some  real  or 
Imagined  injuiT,  the  author  destroyed  the  frail  record  before  he 
left  Harrow.  On  revisiting  the  place  in  1807,  he  wrote  under  it  these 
stanzas. 

♦A i-K 


Jk 


64A  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Why  did  my  childhood  wander  forth 
From  you,  the  regions  of  the  North, 

With  sons  of  pride  to  roam? 
Why  did  I  quit  my  Highland  cave, 
Marr's  dusky  heath,  and  Dee's  clear  wave, 

To  seek  a  Sotherou  home! 

Hall  of  my  Sires  1  a  long  farewell — 

Yet  why  to  thee  adieu? 
Thy  vaults  will  echo  back  my  knell, 

Ihy  towers  my  tomb  will  view: 
The  faltering  tongue  which  sung  thy  fall. 
And  former  glories  of  thy  Hall, 

Forgets  its  wonted  simple  note — 
But  yet  the  Lyre  retains  the  strings. 
And  sometimes,  on  yEolian  wings, 

In  dying  strains  may  float. 

Fields,  which  surround  yon  rustic  cot, 

While  yet  I  linger  here, 
Adieu!  you  are  not  now  forgot, 

To  retrospection  dear. 
Streamlet!  along  whose  rippling  surge 
My  youthful  limbs  were  wont  to  urge, 

At  noontide  heat,  their  pliant  course; 
Plunging  with  ardor  from  the  shore, 
Thy  springs  will  lave  these  limbs  no  more, 

Deprived  of  active  force. 

And  shall  I  here  forget  the  scene 

Still  nearest  to  my  breast? 
Rocks  rise  and  rivers  roll  between 

The  spot  which  passion  blest; 
Yet,  Mary,  all  thv  beauties  seem 
Fresh  as  m  Love's  bewitching  dream, 

To  me  in  smiles  displayed; 
Till  slow  disease  resigns  his  prey 
To  Death,  the  parent  of  decay. 

Thine  image  cannot  fade. 

And  thou,  my  Friend!  whose  gentle  love 

Yet  thrills  my  bosom's  chords. 
How  much  thy  friendship  was  above 

Description's  power  of  words! 
Still  near  my  breast  thy  gift  I  wear 
Which  sparkled  once  with  Feeling's  tear. 

Of  Love  the  pure,  the  sacred  gem; 
Our  souls  were  equal,  and  our  lot 
In  that  dear  moment  quite  forgot; 

Let  Pride  alone  condemn! 

All,  all  is  dark  and  cheerless  now! 

No  smile  of  Love's  deceit 
Can  warm  my  veins  Avith  wonted  glow, 

Can  bid  Life's  pulses  beat: 
Not  e'en  the  hope  of  future  fame 
Can  wake  my  faint,  exhausted  frame, 


He 


r 


^ _ ^ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  545 

Or  crown  with  fancied  wreaths  my  head: 
Mine  is  a  short,  inglorious  race, —  \ 

To  humble  in  the  dust  my  face, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

O  Fame!  thou  goddess  of  my  heart, 

On  him  who  gains  thy  praise. 
Pointless  must  fall  the  Spectre's  dart. 

Consumed  in  Glory's  blaze; 
But  me  she  beckons  from  the  earth, 
My  name  obscure,  unmark'd  my  birth, 

My  life  a  short  and  vulgar  dream; 
Lost  in  the  dull,  ignoble  crowd. 
My  hopes  recline  within  a  shroud, 

My  fate  is  Lethe's  stream. 

When  I  repose  beneath  the  sod, 

Unheeded  in  the  clay. 
Where  once  my  playful  footsteps  trod, 

Where  now  my  head  must  lay. 
The  meed  of  Pity  will  be  shed 
In  dewdrops  o'er  my  narrow  bed. 

By  nightly  skies,  and  storms  alone; 
No  mortal  eye  will  deign  to  steep 
With  tears  the  dark  sepulchral  deep 

Which  hides  a  name  unknown. 

Forget  this  world,  my  restless  sprite, 

Turn,  turn  thy  thoughts  to  Heaven: 
There  must  thou  soon  direct  thy  flight. 

If  errors  are  forgiven. 
To  bigots  and  to  sects  unknown. 
Bow  ^own  beneath  the  Almighty's  Throne; 

To  Him  address  thy  trembling  prayer: 
He,  who  is  merciful  and  just, 
Will  not  reject  a  child  of  dust, 

Although  his  meanest  care. 

Father  of  Light!  to  thee  I  call; 

My  soul  is  dark  within: 
Thou  who  canst  mark  the  sparrow's  fa'l, 

Avert  the  death  of  sin. 
Thou,  who  canst  guide  the  wandering  star, 
Who  calm'st  the  elemental  war, 

Whose  mantle  is  yon  boundless  sky, 
My  thoughts,  my  words,  my  crimes  forgive: 
And,  since  I  soon  must  cease  to  live, 

Instruct  me  how  to  die. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Thou  Power !  who  hast  ruled  me  through  infancy's  days, 
Young  offspring  of  fancy,  'tis  time  we  should  part; 

Then  rise  on  the  gale  this  the  last  of  my  lays, 
The  coldest  effusion  which  springs  from  my  heart. 

■* th- 


^i- 


-IK 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

This  bosom,  responsive  to  rapture  no  more, 
Shall  hush  thy  wild  notes,  nor  implore  thee  to  sing; 

The  feelings  of  childhood  which  taught  thee  to  soar, 
Are  wafted  far  distant  on  Apathy's  wing. 

Though  simple  the  themes  of  my  rude  flowing  Lyre, 
Yet  even  these  themes  are  departed  for  ever; 

No  more  beam  the  eyes  which  my  dream  could  inspire, 
My  visions  are  flown,  to  return — alas!  never. 

When  drain'd  is  the  nectar  which  gladdens  the  bowl, 

How  vain  is  the  effort  delight  to  prolong! 
When  cold  is  the  beauty  which  dwelt  in  my  soul, 

What  magic  of  fancy  can  lengthen  my  song? 

Can  the  lips  sing  of  Love  in  the  desert  alone, 
Of  kisses  and  smiles  which  they  now  must  resign? 

Or  dwell  with  delight  on  the  hours  that  are  flown  ? 
Ah,  no!  for  those  hours  can  no  longer  be  mine. 

Can  they  speak  of  the  friends  that  I  lived  but  to  love  ? 

Ah,  surely  affection  ennobles  the  strain  ! 
But  how  can  my  numbers  in  sympathy  move, 

When  I  scarcely  can  hope  to  behold  them  again? 

Can  I  sing  of  the  deeds  which  my  Fathers  have  done, 
And  raise  my  loud  harp  to  the  fame  of  my  Sires? 

For  glories  like  theirs,  oh,  how  faint  is  my  tone! 
For  Hero§3'  exploits  how  unequal  my  fires! 

Untouch'd,  then,  my  Lyre  shall  reply  to  the  blast — 
'Tis  hush'd,  and  my  feeble  endeavors  are  o'er; 

And  those  who  have  heard  it  will  pardon  the  past, 
When  they  know  that  its  murmurs  shall  vibrate  no  more. 

And  soon  shall  its  wild  erring  notes  be  forgot, 
Since  early  affection  and  love  are  o'ercast: 

Ohl  blest  had  my  fate  been,  and  happy  my  lot, 
Had  the  first  strain  of  love  been  the  dearest,  the  last. 

Farewell,  my  young  Muse!  since  we  now  can  ne'er  meet; 

If  our  songs  have  been  languid,  they  surely  are  few; 
Let  us  hope  that  the  present  at  least  will  be  sweet — 

The  present — which  seals  our  eternal  adieu. 


TO  AN  OAK  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

Young  Oak!  when  I  planted  thee  deep  In  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  be  longer  than  mine; 

That  thy  dark-waving  branches  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thy  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 

Such,  such  was  my  hope,  when  in  infancy's  years, 
On  the  land  of  my  fathers  I  rear'd  thee  with  pride; 

They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears, — 
Thy  decay  not  the  weeds  that  surround  thee  can  hide. 


^t■ 


■* *■ 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  547 

I  left  thee,  my  Oak,  and  since  that  fatal  hour, 

A  stranger  has  dwelt  in  the  hall  of  my  sire; 
Till  manhood  shall  crown  me,  not  mine  is  the  power. 

But  his,  whose  neglect  may  have  bade  thee  expne. 

Oh  I  hardy  thou  wert — even  now  little  care 
Might  revive  thy  young  head,  and  thy  wounds  gently  heal: 

But  thou  wert  not  fated  alfection  to  share — 
For  who  could  suppose  that  a  stranger  would  feell 

Ah,  droop  not,  my  Oak!  lift  thy  head  for  a  while; 

Ere  twice  round  yon  Glory  this  planet  shall  run, 
The  hand  of  thy  Master  will  teach  thee  to  smile, 

When  Infancy's  years  of  probation  are  done. 

Oh,  live  then,  my  Oak!  tow'r  aloft  from  the  weeds 
That  clog  thy  young  growth,  and  assist  thy  decay, 

For  still  in  thy  bosom  are  life's  early  seeds. 
And  still  may  thy  branches  thy  beauty  display. 

Oh!  yet,  if  maturity's  years  may  be  thine, 
Though  /shall  lie  low  in  the  cavern  of  death. 

On  thy  leaves  yet  the  day-beam  of  ages  may  shine, 
Uninjured  by  time,  or  the  rude  winter's  breath. 

For  centuries  still  may  thy  boughs  lightly  wave 

O'er  the  corse  of  thy  lord  in  thy  canopy  laid; 
While  the  branches  thus  gratefully  shelter  his  grave, 

The  chief  who  survives  may  recline  in  thy  shade. 

And  as  he,  with  his  boys,  shall  revisit  this  spot. 
He  will  tell  them  in  whispers  more  softly  to  tread. 

Oh!  surely,  by  these  I  shall  ne'er  be  forgot; 
Remembrance  still  hallows  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

And  here,  will  they  say,  when  in  life's  glowing  prime, 
Perhaps  he  has  pour'd  forth  his  young  simple  lay. 

And  here  must  he  sleep,  till  the  moments  of  time 
Are  lost  in  the  hours  of  Eternity's  day. 


EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND, 

IN  ANSWTER    TO    SOME    LINES    EXHORTING    THE    AUTHOR    TO  BE 
CHEERFUL,    AND   TO    "BANISH   CARE." 

"  Oh!  banish  care  " — such  ever  be 
The  motto  of  thy  revelry! 
Perchance  of  mine,  when  wassail  nights 
Renew  those  riotous  delights, 
Wherewith  the  children  of  Despair 
Lull  the  lone  heart,  and  "  banish  care." 
But  not  in  morn's  reflecting  hour. 
When  present,  past,  and  future  lower, 
When  all  I  loved  is  changed  or  gone, 
Mock  with  such  taunts  the  woes  of  one, 
Whose  every  thought — but  let  them  pass — 
Thou  know'st  I  am  not  what  I  was. 

*m A- 


^K 


548  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But,  above  all,  if  thou  wouldst  hold 
Place  in  a  heart  that  ne'er  was  cold, 
By  all  the  powers  that  men  revere, 
By  all  unto  thy  bosom  dear. 
Thy  joys  below,  thy  hopes  above, 
Speak— speak  of  anything  but  love. 

'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  vain  to  hear, 
The  tale  of  one  who  scorns  a  tear; 
And  there  is  little  in  that  tale 
Which  better  bosoms  would  bewail. 
But  mine  has  suffer' d  more  than  well 
*Twould  suit  philosophy  tell. 
I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride, — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant  which  she  bore. 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled, 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child; 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain. 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain; 
And  /  have  acted  well  my  part. 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart, 
Return'd  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 
Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave, — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  if  without  design, 
The  babe  which  ought,  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd,  alas!  in  each  caress 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less. 

But  let  this  pass — I'll  whine  no  more. 
Nor  seek  again  an  eastern  shore; 
The  world  befits  a  busy  brain, — 
I'll  hie  me  to  its  haunts  again. 
But  if,  in  some  succeeding  year. 
When  Britain's  *'  May  is  in  the  sere," 
Thou  hear'st  of  one  whose  deepening  crimes 
Suit  with  the  sablest  of  the  times. 
Of  one,  whom  love  nor  pity  sways. 
Nor  hope  of  fame,  nor  good  men's  praise; 
One,  who  in  stem  ambition's  pride, 
Perchance  not  blood  shall  turn  aside; 
One  rank'd  in  some  recording  page 
With  the  worst  anarchs  of  the  age. 
Him  wilt  thou  knoiv — and  kncninng  pause, 
Nor  with  the  effect  forget  the  cause. 
Nbwstbad  Abbey,  October  11,  1811. 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 


I  8PEA.K  not,  I  trace  not,  I  breathe  not  thy  name; 
There  is  grief  in  the  sound,  there  is  guilt  in  the  fame: 
But  the  tear  which  now  burns  on  my  cheek  raay  impart 
The  deep  thoughts  that  dwell  in  that  silence  of  heart. 


♦^^ 


«- 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


549 


Too  brief  for  our  passion,  too  long  for  our  peace, 
Were  those  hours — can  their  joy  or  their  bitterness  cease? 
We  repent,  we  abjure,  we  will  break  from  our  chain, — 
We  will  part,  we  will  fly  to— unite  it  again! 

Oh!  thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt! 
Forgive  me,  adored  one! — forsake  if  thou  wilt; 
But  the  heart  which  is  thine  shall  expire  undebased, 
And  man  shall  not  break  it — whatever  thou  may'st. 

And  stern  to  the  haughty,  but  humble  to  thee, 
This  soul  in  its  bitterest  blackness  shall  be; 
And  our  days  seem  as  swift,  and  our  moments  more 
With  thee  by  my  side,  than  with  worlds  at  our  feet. 

One  sigh  of  thy  sorrow,  one  look  of  thy  love, 
Shall  turn  me  or  fix,  shall  reward  or  reprove; 
And  the  heartless  may  wonder  at  all  I  resign — 
Thy  lip  shall  reply,  not  to  them,  but  to  mine. 


ADDRESS 

INTENDED  TO  HAVE   BEEN  RECITED  AT   THE   CALEDONIAN 
MEETING,    1814. 

Who  hath  not  glow'd  above  the  page  where  fame 
Hath  fix'd  high  Caled«n's  unconquer'd  name: 
The  mountain  land  which  spurn'd  the  Roman  chain, 
And  baffled  back  the  fiery-crested  Dane: 
Whose  bright  claymore  and  hardihood  of  hand 
No  foe  could  tame — no  tyrant  could  command! 
That  race  is  gone — but  still  their  children  breathe, 
And  glory  crowns  them  with  redoubled  wreath: 
O'er  Gael  and  Saxton  mingling  banners  shine. 
And,  England!  add  their  stubborn  strength  to  thina. 
The  blood  which  flow'd  with  Wallace  flows  as  free, 
But  now  'tis  only  shed  for  fame  and  thee! 
Oh!  pass  not  by  the  northern  veteran's  claim. 
But  give  support — the  world  hath  given  him  fame! 

The  humbler  ranks,  the  lowly  brave,  who  bled 
While  cheerly  following  where  the  mighty  led — 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  undistinguish'd  sod 
Where  happier  comrades  in  their  triumph  trod, 
To  us  bequeath'd— 'tis  all  their  fate  allows— 
The  sireless  offspring  and  the  lonely  spouse: 
She  on  high  Albyu's  dusky  hills  may  raise 
The  tearful  eye  in  melancholy  gaze; 
Or  view,  while  shadowy  auguries  disclose. 
The  Highland  seer's  anticipated  woes, 
The  bleeding  phantom  of  each  martial  form, 
Dim  in  the  cloud,  or  darkling  in  the  storm; 
While  sad  she  chants  the  solitary  song. 
The  soft  lament  for  him  who  tarries  long — 
For  him  whose  distant  relics  vainly  crave 
The  coronach's  wild  requiem  to  the  brave! 


*H: 


^K 


A. 


550  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

'Tis  heaven — not  man — must  charm  away  the  woe, 
Which  bursts  when  Nature's  feelings  newly  flow, 
Yet  tenderness  and  time  may  rob  the  tear 
Of  half  its  bitterness,  for  one  so  dear; 
A  nation's  gratitude  perchance  may  spread 
A  thornless  pillow  for  the  widow'd  head; 
May  lighten  well  her  heart's  maternal  care, 
And  wean  from  penury  the  soldier's  heir. 


TO  BELSHAZZAR. 


Belshazzak!  from  the  banquet  turn, 

Nor  in  thy  sensual  fulness  fall; 
Behold!  while  yet  before  thee  bum 

The  graven  words,  the  glowing  wall. 
Many  a  despot  men  miscall 

Crown'd  and  anointed  from  on  high; 
But  thou,  the  weakest,  worst  of  all — 

Is  it  not  written,  thou  must  die? 

Go!  dash  the  roses  from  thy  brow — 

Gray  hairs  but  poorly  wreathe  with  them; 
Youth's  garlands  misbecome  thee  now, 

More  than  thy  very  diadem. 
Where  thou  hast  tarnish'd  ^very  gem: — 

Then  throw  the  worthless  bauble  by, 
Which,  worn  by  thee,  e'en  slaves  contemn; 

And  learn  like  better  men  to  die! 

Oh!  early  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  ever  light  of  word  and  worth, 
Whose  soul  expired  ere  youth  decay'd. 

And  left  thee  but  a  mass  of  earth. 
To  see  thee  moves  the  scomer's  mirth: 

But  tears  in  Hope's  averted  eye 
Lament  that  even  thou  hadst  birth — 

Unfit  to  govern,  live,-  or  die. 


Ht- 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

They  say  that  Hope  is  happiness, 
But  genuine  Love  must  prize  the  past. 

And  memory  wakes  the  thoughts  that  bless: 
They  rose  the  first — they  set  the  last; 

And  all  that  Memory  loves  the  most 

Was  once  our  only  Hope  to  be. 
And  all  that  Hope  adored  and  lost 

Hath  melted  into  Memory. 

Alas!  it  is  delusion  all; 

The  future  cheats  us  from  afar. 
Nor  can  we  be  what  we  recall. 

Nor  dare  we  think  on  what  we  are. 


IK 


-Ji 11- 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 

A  ROMAUNT. 


"L'univers  est  une  esp§ce  de  livre,  dont  on  n'a  lu  que  la  premiere 
page  quand  on  n'a  vu  que  son  pays.  J'en  ai  feuilletee  un  assez 
grand  nombre,  que  i'ai  trouve  fegalement  mauvaises.  Cat  examen 
ne  m'a  point  6te  infructv^ux.  Je  haissais  ma  patrie,  Toutes  les 
impertinences  de  peiiples  divers,  parmi  lesquels  j'al  v6cu,  m'ont 
reconcilie  avee  elle.  Quand  je  n'aurais  tire  d'autre  benfefice  de  mes 
voyages  que  celui-1^,  je  n'en  regretterais  ni  les  frais  ni  les  fatigues." 
— Lk  Cosmopolite. 


PREFACE 

[to  the  first  and  second  cantos]. 

The  following  poem  was  written,  for  the  most  part,  amidst  the 
scenes  which  it  attempts  to  describe.  It  was  begun  in  Albania;  and 
the  parts  relative  to  Spain  and  Portugal  were  composed  from  the 
author's  observations  in  these  countries.  Thus  much  it  may  be 
necessary  to  state  for  the  correctness  of  the  descriptions.  The 
scenes  attempted  to  be  sketched  are  in  Spain,  Portugal,  Epirus, 
Acarnania,  and  Greece.  There,  for  the  present,  the  poem  stops:  its 
reception  will  determine  whether  the  author  may  venture  to  conduct 
his  readers  to  the  capital  of  the  East,  through  Ionia  and  Phrygia: 
these  two  Cantos  are  merely  experimental. 

A  fictitious  character  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of  giving  some 
connection  to  the  piece;  which,  however,  makes  no  pretensions  to 
regularity.  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  by  friends,  on  whose 
opinions  I  set  a  high  value,  that  in  this  fictitious  character,  "  Childe 
Harold,"  I  may  incur  the  suspicion  of  having  intended  some  real 
personage:  this  I  beg  leave,  once  for  all,  to  disclaim— Harold  is  the 
child  of  imagination,  for  the  purpose  I  have  stated.  In  some  very 
trivial  particulars,  and  those  merely  local,  there  might  be  grounds 
for  such  a  notion;  but  in  the  main  points,  I  should  hope,  none  what- 
ever. 

It  is  almost  superfluous  to  mention  that  the  appellati(fc  "  Childe,'^ 
as  "Childe  Waters,"  "Childe  Childers,"  &c.,  is  used  as  more  con- 


iH- 


^ — ^ 

552  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

sonant  with  the  old  structure  of  versification  which  I  have  adopted. 
The  "Good  Night,"  in  the  beginning  of  tl;e  first  Canto,  was  sug- 
gested by  "Lord  Maxwell's  Good  Night,"  in  the  Border  Minstrelsy, 
edited  by  Mr.  Scott. 

With  the  different  poems  which  have  been  published  on  Spanish 
subjects,  there  may  be  found  some  slight  coincidence  in  the  first 
part  which  treats  of  the  Peninsula,  but  it  can  only  be  casual;  as, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  concluding  stanzas,  the  whole  of  this 
poem  was  written  in  the  Levant. 

The  stanza  of  Spenser,  according  to  one  of  our  most  successful 
poets,  admits  of  every  variety.  Di\  Beattie  makes  the  following 
observation:—"  Not  long  ago,  I  began  a  poem  in  the  style  and  stanza 
of  Spenser,  in  which  I  propose  to  give  full  scope  to  my  inclination, 
and  be  either  droll  or  pathetic,  descriptive  or  sentimental,  tender  or 
satirical,  as  the  humor  strikes  me ;  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  measure 
which  I  have  adopted  admits  equally  of  all  these  kinds  of  composi- 
tion." Strengthened  in  my  opinion  by  such  authority,  and  by  the 
example  of  some  of  the  highest  order  of  Italian  poets,  I  shall  make 
no  apology  for  attempts  at  similar  variations  in  the  following  com- 
position; satisfied  that,  if  they  are  unsuccessful,  their  failure  must 
be  in  the  execution,  rather  than  in  the  design,  sanctioned  by  the 
practice  of  Ariosto,  Thomson,  an4  Beattie. 

London,  February,  1812. 


ADDITION  TO  THE  PREFACE. 

I  have  now  waited  till  almost  all  our  periodical  journals  have  dis- 
tributed their  usual  portion  of  criticism.  To  the  justice  of  the 
generality  of  their  criticisms  I  have  nothing  to  object;  it  would  ill 
become  me  to  quarrel  with  their  very  slight  degree  of  censure, 
when,  perhaps,  if  they  had  been  less  kind,  they  had  been  more  can- 
did. Returning,  therefore,  to  all  and  each  my  best  thanks  for  their 
liberality,  on  one  point  alone  shall  I  venture  an  obsei*A^ation. 
Amongst  the  many  objections  ju§tly  urged  to  the  very  indifferent 
character  of  the  "  vagrant  Childe, "  (whom,  notwithstanding  many 
hints  to  the  contrary,  I  still  maintain  to  be  a  fictitious  personage,) 
it  has  been  stated,  that,  besides  the  anachronism,  he  is  very  un- 
knightly,  as  the  times  of  the  Knights  were  times  of  Love,  Honor, 
and  so  forth.  Now,  it  so  happens  that  the  good  old  times,  when 
"  I'amour  du  bon  vieux  temps,  Tamour  antique  "  flourished,  were  the 
most  profligate  of  all  possible  centuries.  Those  who  have  any 
doubts  on  this  subject  may  consult  Sainte-Palaye,  passim,  and  more 
particularly  vol.  ii.  p.  69.  The  vows  of  chivalry  were  no  better  kept 
than  any  other  vows  whatsoever:  and  the  songs  of  the  Troubadours 
were  not  more  decent,  and  certainly  were  much  less  refined,  than 
those  of  Ojfid.  The  "Cours  d'amour,  parlemens  d'amoux*,  ou  de 
courtesie  et  de  gentilesse,"  had  much  more  of  love  than  of  courtesy 

♦* #* 


* ft. 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  653 

or  gentleness.  See  Roland  on  the  same  subject  with  Sainte  Palaye. 
Whatever  other  objection  ma.y  be  urged  to  that  most  unamiable 
personage,  Childe  Harold,  he  was  so  far  perfectly  knightly  in  his 
attributes — "No  waiter,  but  a  knight  templar."*  By  the  by,  I  fear 
that  Sir  Tristrem  and  Sir  Lancelot  were  no  better  than  they  should 
be,  although  very  poetical  personages  and  true  knights,  "sans 
peur,"  though  not  "  sans  reproche."  If  the  story  of  the  institution 
of  the  "  Garter  "  be  not  a  fable,  the  knights  of  that  order  have  for 
several  centuries  borne  the  badge  of  a  Countess  of  Salisbury,  of  in- 
different memory.  So  much  for  chivalry.  Burke  need  not  have 
regretted  that  its  days  are  over,  though  Marie- Antoinette  was  quite 
as  chaste  as  most  of  those  in  whose  honors  lances  were  shivered 
and  knights  unhorsed. 

Before  the  days  of  Bayard,  and  down  to  those  of  Sir  Joseph  Banks 
(the  most  chaste  and  celebrated  of  ancient  and  modern  times),  few 
exceptions  will  be  found  to  this  statement;  and  I  fear  a  little  in- 
vestigation will  teach  us  not  to  regret  these  monstrous  mummeries 
of  the  middle  ages. 

I  now  leave  "Childe  Harold"  to  live  his  day,  such  as  he  is;  it  had  been 
more  agreeable,  and  certainly  more  easy,  to  have  drawn  an  amiable 
character.  It  had  been  easy  to  varnish  over  his  faults,  to  make  him  do 
more  and  express  less;  but  he  never  was  intended  as  an  example, 
further  than  to  show  that  early  perversion  of  mind  and  morals  leads 
to  satiety  of  past  pleasures  and  disappointment  in  new  ones,  and 
that  even  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  stimulus  of  travel  (except 
ambition,  the  most  powerful  of  all  excitements),  are  lost  on  a  soul 
so  constituted,  or  rather  misdirected.  Had  I  proceeded  with  the 
poem,  this  character  would  have  deepened  as  he  drew  to  the  close; 
for  the  outhne  which  I  once  meant  to  fill  up  for  him  was,  with  some 
exceptions,  the  sketch  of  a  modern  Timon,  perhaps  a  poetical 
Zeluco. 

London,  1813. 

*  "The  Royers,  or  the  Double  Arrangement." 


ik* 


554  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


TO  lANTHE. 

Not  in  those  climes  where  I  have  late  been  straying, 
Though  Beauty  long  hath  there  been  matchless  deem'd, 
Not  in  those  visions  to  the  heart  displaying 
Forms  which  it  sighs  but  to  have  only  dream'd, 
Hath  aught  like  thee  in  truth  or  fancy  seem'd: 
Nor,  having  seen  thee,  shall  I  vainly  seek 
To  paint  those  charms  which  varied  as  they  beam'd; 
To  such  as  see  thee  not  my  words  were  weak; 
To  those  who  gaze  on  thee  what  language  could  they  speak? 

Ah!  may'st  thou  ever  be  what  now  thou  art, 
Nor  unbeseem  the  promise  of  thy  spring, 
As  fair  in  form,  as  warm  yet  pure  in  heart. 
Love's  image  upon  earth  without  his  wing, 
And  guileless  beyond  Hope's  imagining! 
And  surely  she  who  now  so  fondly  rears 
Thy  youth,  in  thee,  thus  hourly  brightening. 
Behold  the  rainbow  of  her  future  years. 
Before  whose  heavenly  hues  all  sorrow  disappears. 

Young  Peri  of  the  West! — 'tis  well  for  me 
My  years  already  doubly  number  thine; 
My  loveless  eye  unmoved  may  gaze  on  thee. 
And  safely  view  thy  ripening  beauties  shine: 
Happy,  I  ne'er  shall  see  them  in  decline; 
Happier,  that  while  all  younger  hearts  shall  bleed, 
Mine  shall  escape  the  doom  thine  eyes  assign 
To  those  whose  admiration  shall  succeed, 
But  mix'd  with  pangs  to  Love's  even  loveliest  hours  decreed. 

Oh!  let  that  eye,  which,  wild  as  the  gazelle's, 
Now  brightly  bold  or  beautifully  shy, 
Wins  as  it  wanders,  dazzles  where  it  dwells. 
Glance  o'er  this  page,  nor  to  my  verse  deny 
That  smile  for  which  my  breast  might  vainly  sigh, 
Could  I  to  thee  be  ever  more  than  friend: 
This  much,  dear  maid,  accord;  nor  question  why 
To  one  so  young  my  strain  I  would  commend, 
But  bid  me  with  my  wreath  one  matchless  lily  blend. 

Such  is  thy  name  with  this  my  verse  entwined; 
And  long  as  kinder  eyes  a  look  shall  cast 
On  Harold's  page,  laiithe's  here  enshrined 
Shall  thus  be  first  beheld,  forgotten  last: 
My  days  once  number'd,  should  this  homage  past 
Attract  thy  fairy  fingers  near  the  lyre 
Of  him  who  hail'd  thee,  loveliest  as  thou  wast, 
Such  is  the  most  my  memory  may  desire; 
Though  more  than  Hope  can  claim,  could  Friendship  less  require? 


-HI- 


^K 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


Oh,  thou!  in  Hellas  deem'd  of  heavenly  birth, 
Muse!  form'd  or  fabled  at  the  minstrel's  will! 
Since  shamed  full  oft  by  later  lyres  on  earth, 
Mine  dares  not  call  thee  from  thy  sacred  hill: 
Yet  there  I've  wander'd  by  thy  vaunted  rill; 
Yes!  sigh'd  o'er  Delphi's  long-deserted  shrine,* 
Where,  save  that  feeble  fountain,  all  is  still; 
Nor  mote  my  shell  awake  the  weary  Nine 
To  grace  so  plain  a  tale— this  lowly  lay  of  mine. 

II. 
Whilom  in  Albion's  isle  there  dwelt  a  youth, 
Who  ne  in  virtue's  ways  did  take  delight; 
But  spent  his  days  in  riot  most  uncouth. 
And  vex'd  with  mirth  the  drowsy  ear  of  Night. 
Ah,  me!  in  sooth  he  was  a  shameless  wight. 
Sore  given  to  revel  and  imgodly  glee; 
Few  earthly  things  found  favor  in  his  sight 
Save  concubines  and  carnal  companie. 
And  flaunting  wassailers  of  high  and  low  degree. 

III. 
Childe  Harold  was  he  hight:— but  whence  his  name 
And  lineage  long,  it  suits  me  not  to  say; 
Suffice  it,  that  perchance  they  were  of  fame, 
And  had  been  glorious  in  another  day: 
But  one  sad^osel  soils  a  name  for  aye. 
However  mighty  in  the  olden  time; 
Nor  all  that  heralds  rake  from  coffined  clay, 
Nor  florid  prose,  nor  honey'd  lies  of  rhyme, 
Can  blazon  evil  deeds,  or  consecrate  a  crime. 

•  The  little  village  of  Castri  stands  partly  on  the  site  of  Delphi. 
Along  the  path  of  the  mountain,  from  Chrysso,  are  the  remains  of 
sepulchres  hewn  in  and  from  the  rock.  "One,'  said  the  guide,  "of 
a  king  who  broke  his  neck  hunting."  His  majesty  had  certainly 
chosen  the  fittest  spot  for  such  an  achievement.  A  little  above 
Castri  is  a  cave,  supposed  the  Pythian,  of  immense  depth;  the  upper 
part  of  it  is  paved,  and  now  a  cow-house.  On  the  other  side  of 
Castri  stands  a  Greek  monastery;  some  way  above  which  is  the 
cleft  in  the  rock,  with  a  range  of  caverns  difficult  of  ascent,  and 
apparently  leading  to  the  interior  of  the  mountain;  probably  to  the 
CoiTcian  Cavern  mentioned  byPausanias.  From  this  part  descend 
the  fountain  and  the  "Dews  of  CastaUe." 


*ii- 


i 


m- 

556  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [canto  i. 


Childe  Harold  bask'd  him  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Disporting  there  like  any  other  fly, 
Nor  deem'd  before  his  little  day  was  done 
One  blast  might  chill  him  into  misery. 
But  long  ere  scarce  a  third  of  his  pass'd  by, 
Worse  than  adversity  the  Childe  befell; 
He  felt  the  fulness  of  satiety: 
Then  loathed  he  in  his  native  land  to  dwell. 
Which  seem'd  to  him  more  lone  than  Eremite's  sad  celL 


For  he  through  Sin's  long  labyrinth  had  run, 
Nor  made  atonement  when  he  did  amiss, 
Had  sigh'd  to  many  though  he  loved  but  one. 
And  that  loved  one,  alas!  could  ne'er  be  his. 
Ah,  happy  she!  to  'scape  from  him  whose  kiss 
Had  been  pollution  unto  aught  so  chaste; 
Who  soon  had  left  her  charms  for  vulgar  bliss. 
And  spoil 'd  her  goodly  lands  to  gild  his  waste. 
Nor  calm  domestic  peace  had  ever  deign'd  to  taste. 


And  now  Childe  Harold  was  sore  sick  at  heart, 
And  from  his  fellow  bacchanals  would  flee; 
'Tis  said,  at  times  the  sullen  tear  would  start, 
But  Pride  congeal 'd  the  drop  within  his  e'e: 
Apart  he  stalled  in  joyless  reverie, 
And  from  his  native  land  resolved  to  go, 
And  visit  scorching  climes  beyond  the  sea; 
With  pleasure  drugg'd,  he  almost  long'd  for  woe. 
And  e'en  for  change  of  scene  would  seek  the  shades  below. 


The  Childe  departed  from  his  father's  hall; 
It  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile; 
So  old,  it  seemed  only  not  to  fall. 
Yet  strength  was  pillar'd  in  each  massy  aisle. 
Monastic  dome!  condemn'd  to  uses  vile! 
Where  Superstition  once  had  made  her  den. 
Now  Paphian  girls  were  known  to  sing  and  smile; 
And  monks  might  deem  their  time  was  come  agen, 
If  ancient  tales  say  true,  nor  wrong  these  holy  men. 

VIII. 

Yet  oft-times  in  his  maddest  mirthful  mood 
Strange  pangs  would  flash  along  Childe  Harold's  brow, 
As  if  the  memory  of  some  deadly  feud 
Or  disappointed  passion  lurk'd  below: 
But  this  none  knew,  nor  haply  cared  to  know: 
For  his  was  not  that  open,  artless  soul 
That  feels  relief  by  bidding  sorrow  flow. 
Nor  sought  he  friend  to  counsel  or  condole, 
Whate'er  this  grief  mote  be,  which  he  could  not  control. 


u 


^ : ^ 

CANTO  I.J      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  557 

IX. 

And  none  did  love  him — though  to  hall  and  bower 
He  gather'd  revellers  from  far  and  near, 
He  knew  them  flatterers  of  the  festal  hour; 
The  heartless  parasites  ot  present  cheer. 
Teal  none  did  love  him — not  his  lemans  dear — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care, 
And  where  these  are  light  Eros  finds  a  fere; 
Maidens,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare. 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  Seraphs  might  despair. 

X. 

Childe  Harold  had  a  mother— not  forgot, 
Though  parting  from  that  mother  he  did  shun; 
A  sister  whom  he  loved,  but  saw  her  not 
Before  his  weary  pilgrimage  begun: 
If  friends  he  had,  he  bade  adieu  to  none. 
Yet  deem  not  thence  his  breast  a  breast  of  steel: 
Ye,  who  have  known  what  'tis  to  dote  upon 
A  few  dear  objects,  will  in  sadness  feel 
Such  partings  break  the  heart  they  fondly  hope  to  heal. 


His  house,  his  home,  his  heritage,  his  lands, 
The  laughing  dames  in  whom  he  did  delight. 
Whose  large  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  snowy  hands, 
Might  shake  the  saintship  of  an  anchorite, 
And  long  had  fed  his  youthful  appetite; 
His  goblets  brimm'd  with  every  costly  wine, 
And  all  that  mote  to  luxury  invite, 
Without  a  sigh  he  left  to  cross  the  brine. 
And  traverse  Paynim  shores,  and  pass  Earth's  central  line. 


The  sails  were  fiU'd,  and  fair  the  light  winds  blew, 
As  glad  to  waft  him  from  his  native  home; 
And  fast  the  white  rocks  faded  from  his  view. 
And  soon  were  lost  in  circumambient  foam: 
And  then,  it  may  be,  of  his  wish  to  roam 
Repented  he,  but  in  his  bosom  slept 
The  silent  thought,  nor  from  his  lips  did  come 
One  word  of  wail,  whilst  others  safe  and  wept, 
And  to  the  reckless  gales  unmanly  moaning  kept. 


But  when  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea. 
He  seized  his  harp,  which  he  at  times  could  string, 
And  strike,  albeit  witn  untaught  melody, 
When  deem'd  he  no  strange  ear  was  listening: 
And  now  his  fingers  o'er  it  he  did  fling. 
And  tuned  his  farewell  in  the  dim  twilight, 
While  flew  the  vessel  on  her  snowy  wing, 
And  fleeting  shores  receded  from  his  sight, 
Thus  to  the  elements  he  pour'd  his  last  "  Good  Night.' 


♦^^ 


^ r fr 

558  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [canto  i, 

"Adieu,  adieu!  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue; 
The  Night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight: 
Farewell  a  while  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  Laud — Good  Night! 

**A  few  short  hours,  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page, 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billow's  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong: 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 

"  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind: 
Yet  marvel  not.  Sir  Childe,  that  I 

Am  sorrowful  in  mind; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee — and  One  above. 

*'  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again  " — 
"Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad! 

Suph  tears  become  thine  eye; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

*'  Come  hither,  hither,  my  stanch  yeoman. 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale?"— 
"Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life? 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  cheek. 

**  My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall. 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  call. 

What  answer  shall  she  make?" — 


IK 


Yon  Sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 
We  follow  in  his  flight: 

Farewell  a  while  to  him  and  thee, 
My  native  land— Good  night: " 


Byron. 


Chihle  HaroUVs  Pilyrimaye.—'Pfi.ge  558, 


CANTO  I.]       CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 
Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay; 

But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood. 
Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 

"  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 
-  Of  wife  or  paramour? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

**And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea: 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me? 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again 

He'd  tear  me  where  he  stands. 

"  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves  I 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves! 

My  native  land — Good  Nightl" 


On,  on  the  vessel  flies,  the  land  is  gone. 
And  winds  are  rude,  in  Biscay's  sleepless  bay. 
Four  days  are  sped,  but  with  the  fifth,  anon, 
New  shores  descried  make  every  bosom  gay; 
And  Cintra's  mountain  greets  them  on  their  way, 
And  Tagus  dashing  onward  to  the  deep, 
His  fabled  golden  tribute  bent  to  pay; 
And  soon  on  board  the  Lusian  pilots  leap, 
And  steer  'twixt  fertile  shores  where  yet  few  ruirtics  reap. 


Oh,  Christ!  it  is  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
What  Heaven  hath  done  for  this  delicious  land! 
What  fruits  of  fragrance  blush  on  every  tree! 
What  goodly  prospects  o'er  the  hills  expand! 
But  man  would  mar  them  with  an  impious  hand: 
And  when  the  Almighty  lifts  His  fiercest  scourge 
'Gainst  those  who  most  transgress  His  high  command, 
With  treble  vengeance  will  His  hot  shafts  urge 
Gaul's  locust  host,  and  earth  from  fellest  foeman  purge. 

XVI. 

What  beauties  doth  Lisboa  first  unfold! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 

** '■ **- 


JK 


560  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.       [canto  i. 

Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thoasand  keels  did  ride 
Of  mighty  strength,  since  Albion  was  allied. 
And  to  the  Lusians  did  her  aid  afford: 
A  nation  swollen  with  ignorance  and  pride 
Who  lick  yet  loathe  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  from  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  unsparing  lord. 


But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That,  sheening  far,  celestial  seems  to  he. 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
'Mid  many  things  unsightly  to  strange  e'e; 
For  hut  and  palace  show  like  filthily: 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt; 
No  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  for  cleanness  of  surtout  or  shirt. 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  unkempt,  nnwash'd; 
unhurt. 

xvin. 

Poor,  paltry  slaves!  yet  bom  'midst  noblest  scenes — 
Why,  Nature,  waste  thy  wonders  on  such  men? 
Lo!  Cintra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen. 
Ah,  me!  what  hand  can  pencil  guide,  or  pen. 
To  follow  half  on  which  the  eye  dilates 
Through  views  more  dazzling  unto  mortal  ken 
Than  those  whereof  such  things  the  bard  relates, 
Who  to  the  awe-struck  world  unlock'd  Elysium's  gates? 

XTX. 

The  horrid  crags  by  toppling  convent  crovra'd. 
The  cork-trees  hoar  that  clothe  the  shaggy  steep. 
The  mountain-moss  by  scorching  skies  imbrown'd. 
The  sunken  glen,  whose  sunless  shrubs  must  weep. 
The  tender  azure  of  the  unruffled  deep, 
The  orange  tints  that  gild  the  greenest  bough, 
The  torrents  that  from  cliff  to  valley  leap, 
The  vine  on  high,  the  willow-branch  below, 
Mix'd  in  one  mighty  scene,  with  varied  beauty  glow. 

XX. 

Then  slowly  climb  the  many-winding  way, 
And  frequent  turn  to  linger  as  you  go, 
From  loftier  rocks  new  loveliness  survey. 
And  rest  ye  at  "  Our  Lady's  House  of  Woe;"* 
Where  frugal  monks  their  little  relics  show. 
And  sundry  legends  to  the  stranger  tell: 
Here  impious  men  have  punish'd  been,  and  lo! 
Deep  in  yon  cave  Honorius  long  did  dwell. 
In  hope  to  merit  Heaven  by  making  earth  a  Hell. 

♦The  convent  of  "Our  Lady  of  Punishment,"  JVossa  Senora  de 
Pena,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock.  Below,  at  some  distance,  is  the 
Cork  Convent,  where  St.  Honorius  dug  his  den,  over  which  is  his 
epitaph.    From  the  hills,  the  sea  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  view. 

■Hfa *- 


^ ^ 

CANTO  I.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  561 

XXI. 

And  here  and  there,  as  up  the  crags  you  spring, 
Mark  many  rude-carved  crosses  near  the  path: 
Yet  deem  not  these  devotion's  offering — 
These  are  memorials  frail  of  murderous  wrath: 
For  wheresoe'er  the  shrieking  victim  hath 
Pour'd  forth  his  blood  beneath  the  assassin's  knife, 
Some  hand  erects  a  cross  of  mouldering  lath; 
And  grove  and  glen  with  thousand  such  are  rife 
Throughout  this  purple  land,  where  law  secures  not  life!* 

XXII. 

On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  domes  where  whilom  kings  did  make  repair: 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only  breathe; 
Yet  ruin'd  splendor  still  is  lingering  there, 
And  yonder  towers  the  Princess  palace  fair; 
There  thou,  too,  Vathek!  England's  wealthiest  son, 
Once  form'd  thy  Paradise,  as  not  aware. 
When  wanton  Wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done, 
Meek  Peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun. 

XXIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain's  ever  beauteous  brow; 
Bat  now,  as  if  a  thing  unblest  by  Man, 
Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou! 
Here  giant  weeds  a  passage  scarce  allow 
To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide; 
Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied; 
Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time's  ungentle  tide. 

xxrv. 

Behold  the  hall  where  chiefs  were  late  convened  !t 
Oh!  dome  displeasing  unto  British  eye! 
With  diadem  hight  foolscap,  lo!  a  fiend, 
A  little  fiend  that  scoffs  incessantly. 
There  sits  in  parchment  robe  array'd,  and  by 
His  side  is  hung  a  seal  and  sable  scroll. 
Where  blazon'd  glare  names  known  to  chivalry. 
And  sundry  signatures  adorn  the  roll. 
Whereat  the  Urchin  points,  and  laughs  with  all  his  soul. 

*  It  is  a  well-kno\vn  fact  that  in  the  year  1809,  the  assassinations 
in  the  streets  of  Lisbon  and  its  vicinity  were  not  confined  by  tlie 
Portuguese  to  their  countrymen,  but  that  Englishmen  were  daily- 
butchered;  and  so  far  from  redress  being'  obtained,  we  were  re- 
quested not  to  interfere  if  we  perceived  any  compatriot  defending 
himself  against  his  allies.  1  was  once  stopped  in  the  M'ay  to  the 
theatre  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  streets  were  not 
more  empty  than  they  generally  are  at  that  hour,  opposite  to  an 
open  shop,  and  in  a  carriage  with  a  friend:  had  we  not  fortunately 
been  armed,  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  we  should  have 
"adorned  a  tale"  instead  of  telling  one.  The  crime  of  assassina- 
tion is  not  confined  to  Portugal:  in  Sicily  and  Malta  we  are  knocked 
on  the  head  at  a  handsome  average  nightly,  and  not  a  Sicilian  or 
Maltese  is  ever  punished  I 

t  The  Convention  of  Cintra  was  signed  in  the  palace  of  the  Mar- 
chese  Marialva. 

^ :#. 


4K 


563  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [cauto 


Convention  is  the  dwarfish  demon  styled 
That  foil'd  the  knights  in  Marialva's  dome: 
Of  brains  (if  brains  they  had)  he  them  beguiled, 
And  turn'd  a  nation's  shallow  joy  to  gloom. 
Here  Folly  dash'd  to  earth  the  victor's  plume, 
And  Policy  regain'd  what  Arms  had  lost: 
For  chiefs  like  ours  in  vain  may  laurels  bloom! 
Woe  to  the  conquering,  not  the  conquer'd  host. 
Since  baffled  Triumph  droops  on  Lusitania's  coast. 

XXVI. 

And  ever  since  that  martial  synod  met, 
Britannia  sickens,  Cintra!  at  thy  name; 
And  folks  in  office  at  the  mention  fret, 
And  fain  would  blush,  if  blush  they  could,  for  shame. 
How  will  posterity  the  deed  proclaim  1 
Will  not  our  own  and  fellow-nations  sneer. 
To  view  these  champions  cheated  of  their  fame, 
By  foes  in  fight  o'erthrown,  yet  victors  here. 
Where  Scorn  her  finger  points  through  many  a  coming  year? 

XXVII. 

So  deem'd  the  Childe,  as  o'er  the  mountains  he 
Did  take  his  way  in  solitary  guise; 
Sweet  was  the  scene,  yet  soon  he  thought  to  flee, 
More  restless  than  the  swallow  in  the  skies; 
Though  here  awhile  he  learn'd  to  moralize, 
For  Meditation  flx'd  at  times  on  him. 
And  conscious  Reason  whisper'd  to  despise 
His  early  youth  misspent  in  maddest  whim; 
But  as  he  gazed  on  truth  his  aching  eyes  grew  dim. 

XXVIII. 

To  horse!  to  horse!  he  quits,  for  ever  quits 
A  scene  of  peace,  though  soothing  to  his  soul: 
Again  he  rouses  from  his  moping  fits. 
But  seeks  not  now  the  harlot  and  the  bowl. 
Onward  he  flies,  nor  flx'd  as  yet  the  goal 
Where  he  shall  rest  him  on  his  pilgrimage; 
And  o'er  him  many  changing  scenes  must  roll 
Ere  toil  his  thirst  for  travel  can  assuage. 
Or  he  shall  calm  his  breast,  or  learn  experience  sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet  Mafra  shall  one  moment  claim  delay, 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Lusians'  luckless  queen;* 
And  church  and  court  did  mingle  their  array, 
And  mass  and  revel  were  alternate  seen, 
Lordlings  and  freres — ill-sorted  fry,  I  ween  I 
But  here  the  Babylonian  whore  hath  built 
A  dome,  where  flaunts  she  in  such  glorious  sheen, 
That  men  forget  the  blood  which  she  hath  spilt. 
And  bow  the  knee  to  Pomp  that  loves  to  varnish  guilt. 

♦  Her  luckless  Majesty  went  subsequently  mad :  and  Dr.  Willis, 
who  so  dexterously  cudgelled  kingly  pericraniums,  could  make 
nothing  of  hers. 


r 


^ 

CANTO  I.]       CHILDE  HAKOLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  563 


O'er  vales  that  teem  with  fruits,  romantic  hills, 
(Oh  that  such  hills  upheld  a  free-bom  race!) 
Whereon  to  gaze  the  eye  with  joyaunce  fills, 
Childe  Harold  wends  through  many  a  pleasant  place. 
Though  sluggards  deem  it  but  a  foolish  chase, 
And  marvel  men  should  quit  their  easy-chair, 
The  toilsome  way,  and  long,  long  league  to  trace, 
Oh!  there  is  sweetness  in  the  mountain  air, 
And  life,  that  bloated  Ease  can  never  hope  to  share. 


More  bleak  to  view  the  hills  at  length  recede, 
And,  less  luxuriant,  smoother  vales  extend; 
Immense  horizon-bounded  plains  succeed! 
Far  as  the  eye  discerns,  withouten  end, 
Spain's  realms  appear  whereon  her  shepherds  tend 
Flocks,  whose  rich  fleece  right  well  the  trader  knows — 
Now  must  the  pastor's  arm  his  lambs  defend: 
For  Spain  is  compass'd  by  unyielding  foes. 
And  all  must  shield  their  all,  or  share  Subjection's  woes. 

XXXII. 

Where  Lusitania  and  her  Sister  meet. 
Deem  ye  what  bounds  the  rival  realms  divide? 
Or  ere  the  jealous  queens  of  nations  greet, 
Doth  Tayo  interpose  his  mighty  tide? 
Or  dark  sierras  rise  in  craggy  pride? 
Or  fence  of  art,  like  China's  vasty  wall? 
Ne  barrier  wall,  ne  river  deep  and  wide, 
Ne  horrid  crags,  nor  mountains  dark  and  tall. 
Rise  like  the  rocks  that  part  Hispania's  land  from  Gaul: 


But  these  between  a  silver  streamlet  glides. 
And  scarce  a  name  distinguisheth  the  brook. 
Though  rival  kingdoms  press  its  verdant  sides. 
Here  leans  the  idle  shepherd  on  his  crook. 
And  vacant  on  the  rippling  waves  doth  look. 
That  peaceful  still  'twixt  bitterest  foemen  flow; 
For  proud  each  peasant  as  the  noblest  duke: 
Well  doth  the  Spanish  hind  the  difference  know 
'Twixt  him  and  Lusian  slave,  the  lowest  of  the  low.* 

xxxiv. 
But  ere  the  mingling  bounds  have  far  been  pass'd, 
Dark  Guadiana  rolls 4iis  power  along 
In  sullen  billows,  murmuring  and  vast. 
So  noted  ancient  roundelays  among. 
Whilom  upon  his  banks  did  legions  throng 
Of  Moor  and  Knight,  in  mailed  splendor  drest: 

*  As  I  found  the  Portuguese,  so  I  have  characterized  them.  That 
they  are  since  improved,  at  least  In  courage,  is  evident.  The  late 
exploits  of  Lord  Wellington  have  effaced  the  follies  of  Cintra.  He 
has,  indeed,  done  wonders:  he  has,  perhaps,  changed  the  character 
of  a  nation,  reconciled  rival  superstitions,  and  baffled  an  enemy  who 
never  retreated  before  his  predecessors.— 1812. 


-t 


^h 


564  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.       [canto  t. 

Here  ceased  the  swift  their  race,  here  sunk  the  strong; 
The  Paynim  turban  and  the  Christian  crest 
-     Mix'd  on  the  bleeding  stream,  by  floating  hosts  oppress'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh,  lovely  Spain!  renown'd,  romantic  land! 
Where  is  that  standard  which  Pelagio  bore, 
When  Cava's  traitor-sire  first  caH'a  the  band 
That  dyed  tliy  mountain-streams  with  Gothic  gore?* 
Where  are  those  bloody  banners  which  of  yore 
Waved  o'er  thy  sons,  victorious  to  the  gale, 
And  drove  at  last  the  spoilers  to  their  shore? 
Red  gleam'd  the  cross,  and  waned  the  crescent  pale, 
While  Afric's  echoes  thrill'd  with  Moorish  matrons'  wail. 

XXXVT. 

Teems  not  each  ditty  with  the  glorious  tale? 
Ah!  such,  alas!  the  hero's  amplest  fate! 
When  granite  moulders  and  when  records  fail, 
A  peasant's  plaint  prolongs  his  dubious  date. 
Pride!  bend  thine  eye  from  heaven  to  thine  estate, 
See  how  the  mighty  shrink  into  a  song! 
Can  Volume,  Pillar,  Pile,  preserve  thee  great? 
Or  must  thou  trust  Tradition's  simple  tongue, 
When  Flattery  sleeps  with  thee,  and  History  does  thee  wrong? 


Awake,  ye  sons  of  Spain!  awake!  advance 
Lo!   Chivalry,  your  ancient  goddess,  cries; 
But  wields  not,  as  of  old,  her  thirsty  lance, 
Nor  shakes  her  crimson  plumage  in  the  skies: 
Now  on  the  smoke  of  blazing  bolts  she  flies, 
And  speaks  in  thunder  through  yon  engine's  roar! 
In  every  peal  she  calls — "Awake!  arise!"  * 

Say,  is  her  voice  more  feeble  than  of  yore, 
When  her  war-song  was  heard  on  Andalusia's  shore? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark!  heard  you  not  those  hoofs  of  dreadful  note? 
Sounds  not  the  clang  of  conflict  on  the  heath? 
Saw  ye  not  whom  the  reeking  sabre  smote; 
Nor  saved  your  Jbrethren  ere  they  sank  beneath 
Tyrants  and  tyrants'  slaves?— the  fires  of  death, 
The  bale-fires  flash  on  high:— from  rock  to  rock 
Each  volley  tells  that  thousands  cease  to  breathe; 
Death  rides  upon  the  sulphury  Siroc, 
Red  Battle  stamps  his  foot,  and  nations  feel  the  shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo!  where  the  Giant  on  the  mountain  stands. 
His  blood-red  tresses  deepening  in  the  sun. 
With  death-shot  glowing  in  his  fiery  hands. 
And  eye  that  scorcheth  all  it  glares  upon; 

*  Count  Julian's  daughter,  the  Helen  of  Spain.  Pelapius  preserved 
}'is  independence  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Asturias,  and  the  descend- 
ants of  his  followers,  after  some  centuries,  completed  their  struggle 
by  the  conquest  of  Grenada. 


H^ 


^K 


^ *- 

CANTO  I.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  565 

Restless  it  rolls,  now  flx'd,  and  now  anon 
Flashing  afar, — and  at  his  iron  feet 
Destruction  cowers,  to  mark  what  deeds  are  done; 
For  on  this  mom  three  potent  nations  meet, 
To  shed  before  his  shrine  the  blood  he  deems  most  sweet. 


By  Heaven!  it  is  a  spendid  sight  to  see 
(For  one  who  hath  no  friend,  no  brother  there) 
Their  rival  scarfs  of  mix'd  embroidery. 
Their  various  arms  that  glitter  in  the  air! 
"What  gallant  war-hounds  rouse  them  from  their  lair, 
And  gnash  their  fangs,  loud  yelling  for  the  preyl 
All  join  the  chase,  but  few  the  triumph  share; 
The  Grave  shall  bear  the  chiefest  prize  away. 
And  Havoc  scarce  for  joy  can  number  their  array. 

XLI. 

Three  hosts  combine  to  offer  sacrifice: 
Three  tongues  prefer  strange  orisons  on  high; 
Three  gaudy  standards  flout  the  pale  blue  skies; 
The  shouts  are  France,  Spain,  Albion,  Victory! 
The  foe,  the  victim,  and  the  fond  ally 
That  fights  for  all,  but  ever  fights  in  vain, 
Are  met — as  if  at  home  they  could  not  die — 
To  feed  the  crow  on  Talavera's  plain. 
And  fertilize  the  field  that  each  pretends  to  gain. 

XLII. 

There  shall  they  rot — Ambition's  honor'd  fools! 

Yes,  Honor  decks  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay. 

Vain  Sophistry!  in  these  behold  the  tools, 
'    The  broken  tools,  that  tyrants  cast  away 

By  myriads,  when  they  dare  to  pave  their  way 

With  human  hearts — ^to  what? — a  dream  alone. 

Can  despots  compass  aught  that  hails  their  sway? 

Or  call  with  truth  one  span  of  earth  their  own. 
Save  that  wherein  at  last  they  crumble  bone  by  bone? 


O  Albuera,  glorious  field  of  grief! 
As  o'er  thy  plain  the  Pilgrim  prick'd  his  steed, 
Who  could  foresee  thee,  in  a  space  so  brief, 
A  scene  where  mingling  foes  should  boast  and  bleed! 
Peace  to  the  perish'd!  may  the  warrior's  meed 
And  tears  of  triumph  their  reward  prolong! 
Till  others  fall  where  other  chieftains  lead. 
Thy  name  shall  circle  round  the  gaping  throng. 
And  shine  in  worthless  lays,  the  theme  of  transient  song. 


Enough  of  Battle's  minions!  let  them  play 
Their  game  of  lives,  and  barter  breath  for  fame: 
Fame  that  will  scarce  reanimate  their  clay, 
Though  thousands  fall  to  deck  some  single  name. 


ih 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.       [canto  i. 

In  sooth  'twere  sad  to  thwart  their  noble  aim 
Who  strike,  blest  hirelings!  for  their  country's  good, 
And  die,  that  living  might  have  proved  her  shame; 
Perish'd,  perchance,  in  some  domestic  feud, 
Or  in  a  narrower  sphere  wild  Rapine's  path  pursued. 

XLV. 

Full  swiftly  Harold  wends  his  lonely  way 
Where  proud  Sevilla  triumphs  unsubdued: 
Yet  is  she  free— the  spoiler's  wish'd-for  prey! 
Soon,  soon  shall  Conquest's  fiery  foot  intrude, 
Blackening  her  lovely  domes,  with  traces  rude. 
Inevitable  hour!     'Gainst  fate  to  strive 
Where  Desolation  plants  her  famish'd  brood 
Is  vain,  or  Ilion,  Tyre,  might  yet  survive, 
And  Virtue  vanquish  all,  and  Murder  cease  to  thrive. 


But  all  unconscious  of  the  coming  doom, 
The  feast,  the  song,  the  revel  here  abounds; 
Strange  modes  of  merriment  the  hours  consume. 
Nor  bleed  these  patriots  with  their  country's  wounds: 
Nor  here  War's  clarion,  but  Love's  rebek  sounds; 
Here  Folly  still  his  votaries  enthralls; 
And  young-eyed  Lewdness  walks  her  midnight  rounds: 
Girt  with  the  silent  crimes  of  capitals, 
Still  to  the  last  kind  Vice  clings  to  the  tottering  walla. 


Not  so  the  rustic — with  his  trembling  mate 
He  lurks,  nor  casts  his  heavy  eye  afar. 
Lest  he  should  view  his  vineyard  desolate, 
Blasted  below  the  dun  hot  breath  of  war. 
No  more  beneath  soft  Eve's  consenting  star 
Fandango  twirls  his  jocund  castanet: 
Ah,  monarchs!  could  ye  taste  the  mirth  ye  mar, 
Not  in  the  toils  of  Glory  would  ye  fret; 
The  hoarse  dull  drum  would  sleep,  and  Man  be  happy  yet. 

XLVIII. 

How  carols  now  the  lusty  muleteer? 
Of  love,  romance,  devotion  in  his  lay, 
As  whilom  he  was  wont  the  leagues  to  cheer, 
His  quick  bells  wildly  jingling  on  the  way? 
No!  as  he  speeds,  he  chants  "  Viva  el  Reyl"* 
And  checks  his  song  to  execrate  Godoy, 
The  royal  wittol  Charles,  and  curse  the  day 
When  first  Spain's  queen  beheld  the  black-eyed  boy, 
And  gore-faced  Treason  sprung  from  her  adulterate  joy. 

♦  "Viva  el  Rey  Fernando!"  Lon^  live  King  Ferdinand!  is  the  cho- 
rus of  most  of  the  Spanish  patriotic  sonps.  They  are  chiefly  in  dis- 
praise of  the  old  KinK  Charles,  the  Queen,  and  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
I  have  heard  many  of  them:  some  of  the  airs  are  beautiful.— Don 
Manuel  Godoy,  the  Principe  de  la  Paz,  of  an  ancient  but  decayed  fam- 
ily, wna  born  at  Badajoz,  on  the  frontiers  of  Portugal,  and  was  orig- 
inally in  the  ranks  of  the  Spanish  Guards;  till  his  person  attracted 
the  queen's  eyes,  and  raised  him  to  the  dukedom  of  Alcudia,  &c., 
<S:c.  It  is  to  this  man  that  the  Spaniards  universally  impute  the  ruin 
of  their  country. 


^H- 


CANTO  I.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  567 

XLIX. 

On  yon  long,  level  plain,  at  distance  crown'd 
With  crags,  whereon  those  Moorish  turrets  rest, 
Wide  scatter'd  hoof-marks  dint  the  wounded  ground; 
And,  scathed  by  fire,  the  greensward's  darken'd  vest 
Tells  that  the  foe  was  Andalusia's  guest: 
Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host, 
Here  the  bold  peasant  storm'd  the  dragon's  nest; 
Still  does  he  mark  it  with  triumphant  boast. 
And  points  to  yonder  cliffs,  which  oft  were  won  and  lost. 

L. 

And  whomsoe'er  along  the  path  you  meet 
Bears  in  his  cap  the  badge  of  crimson  hue,* 
Which  tells  you  whom  to  shun  and  whom  to  greet:  -- 
Woe  to  the  man  that  walks  In  public  view 
Without  of  loyalty  this  token  true: 
Sharp  is  the  knife,  and  sudden  is  the  stroke; 
And  sorely  would  the  Gallic  foeman  rue, 
If  subtle  poniards,  wrapt  beneath  the  cloak, 
Could  blunt  the  sabre's  edge,  or  clear  the  cannon's  smoke. 

LI. 

At  every  turn  Morena's  dusky  height 
Sustains  aloft  the  battery's  iron  load; 
And,  far  as  mortal  eye  can  compass  sight, 
The  mountain  howitzer,  the  broken  road, 
The  bristling  palisade,  the  fosse  o'erflow'd. 
The  station'd  bands,  the  never-vacant  watch. 
The  magazine  in  rocky  durance  stow'd. 
The  holster'd  steed  beneath  the  shed  of  thatch, 
The  ball-piled  pyramid,  the  ever-blazing  match,t 

LII. 

Portend  the  deeds  to  come: — but  he  whose  nod 
Has  tumbled  feebler  despots  from  their  sway, 
A  moment  pauseth  ere  he  lifts  the  rod; 
A  little  moment  deign eth  to  delay: 
Soon  will  his  legions  sweep  through  these  their  way; 
The  West  must  own  the  Scourger  of  the  world. 
Ah,  Spain!  how  sad  will  be  thy  reckoning-day. 
When  soars  Gaul's  Vulture,  with  his  wings  unfurl'd. 
And  thou  shalt  view  thy  sons  in  crowds  to  Hades  hurl'd. 

LIII. 

And  must  they  fall?  the  young,  the  proud,  the  brave, 
To  swell  one  bloated  chief's  unwholesome  reign? 
No  step  between  submission  and  a  grave? 
The  rise  of  rapine  and  the  fall  of  Spain? 
And  doth  the  Power  that  man  adores  ordain 
Their  doom,  nor  heed  the  suppliant's  appeal? 
Is  all  that  desperate  Valor  acts  in  vain? 
And  Counsel  sage,  and  patriotic  Zeal,  [steel? 

The  Veteran's  skill,  Youth's  fire,  and  Manhood's  heart  of 
*  The  red  cockade,  with  "  Fernando  VII. "  in  the  centre. 
t  All  who  have  seen  a  battery  will  recollect  the  pyramidal  form  in 
which  shot  and  shells  are  piled.    The  Sierra  Morena  was  fortified  in 
every  defile  through  which  I  passed  on  my  way  to  Seville. 


*ih 


HI 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [canto  i. 

Lrv. 

Is  it  for  this  the  Spanish  maid,  aroused 
Hangs  on  tlie  willow  her  unstrung  guitar, 
And,  all  unsex'd,  the  anlace  hath  espoused, 
Sung  the  loud  song,  and  dared  the  deed  of  war? 
And  she,  whom  once  the  semblance  of  a  scar 
Appall'd,  an  owlet's  larum  chill'd  with  dread, 
Now  views  the  column-scattering  bayonet  jar. 
The  falchion  flash,  and  o'er  the  yet  warm  dead     4 
Stalks  with  Minerva's  step  where  Mars  might  quake  to  tread. 


Ye  who  shall  marvel  when  you  hear  her  tale, 
Oh!  had  you  known  her  in  her  softer  hour, 
Mark'd  her  black  eye  that  mocks  her  coal-black  veil. 
Heard  her  light,  lively  tones  in  lady's  bower, 
Seen  her  long  locks  that  foil  the  painter's  power, 
Her  fairy  form,  with  more  than  female  grace, 
Scflrce  would  you  deem  that  Saragossa's  tower 
Beheld  her  smile  in  Danger's  Gorgon  face. 
Thin  the  closed  ranks,  and  lead  in  Glory's  fearful  ohase. 


Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear; 
Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career; 
The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  sallying  host: 
Who  can  appease  like  her  a  lover's  ghost? 
Who  can  avenge  so  well  a  leader's  fall? 
What  maid  retrieve  when  man's  flush'd  hope  is  lost? 
Who  hang  so  fiercely  on  the  flying  Gaul? 
Foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand,  before  a  batter'd  wall?* 


Yet  are  Spain's  maids  no  race  of  Amazons, 
But  formal  for  all  the  witching  arts  of  love: 
Though  thus  in  arms  they  emulate  her  sons. 
And  in  the  horrid  phalanx  dare  to  move, 
'Tis  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove. 
Pecking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  her  mate: 
In  softness  as  in  firmness  far  above 
Remoter  females,  famed  for  sickening  prate; 
Her  mind  is  nobler  sure,  her  charms  perchance  as  great. 


The  seal  Love's  dimpling  finger  hath  impress'd 
Denotes  how  soft  that  chin  which  bears  his  touch :t 
Her  lips,  whoso  kisses  pout  to  leave  their  nest. 
Bid  man  be  valiant  ere  he  merit  such: 

*  Such  were  the  exploits  of  the  Maid  of  Saragossa,  who  by  her 
valor  elevated  lierself  to  the  liij?hest  rank  of  heroines.  When  the 
author  was  at  Seville,  she  walked  daily  on  the  Prado,  decorated 
with  medals  and  orders,  by  command  of  the  Junta. 

t  "  Sipilla  in  niento  impressa  Amoris  digitulo 

Vestigio  demonstrant  moUitudinem." — Aitl.  Gel. 


Hfr 


-4 


CANTO  I.]       CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  561 

Her  glance,  how  widely  beautiful!  how  much 
Hath  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  to  spoil  her  cheek, 
Which  glows  yet  smoother  from  his  amorous  clutch! 
Who  round  the  North  for  paler  dames  would  seek? 
How  poor  their  forms  appear!  how  languid,  wan,  and  weak  I 

LIX. 

♦ 

Match  me,  ye  climes!  which  poets  love  to  laud;' 
Match  me,  ye  harems  of  the  land!  where  now 
I  strike  ray  strain,  far  distant,  to  applaud 
Beauties  that  even  a  cynic  must  avow! 
Match  me  those  houris,  whom  ye  scarce  allow 
To  taste  the  gales  lest  Love  should  ride  the  wind, 
With  Spain's  dark-glancing  daughters— deign  to  know, 
There  your  wise  Prophet's  paradise  we  find. 

His  black-eyed  maids  of  Heaven,  angelically  kind. 


Oh  thou,  Parnassus !  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  frenzy  of  a  dreamer's  eye. 
Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a' lay. 
But  soaring  snow-clad  through  thy  native  sky. 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty! 
What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing? 
The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 
Would  gladly  woo  thine  Echoes  with  his  string 
Though  from  thy  heights  no  more  one  Muse  will  wave  her  wing. 


Oft  have  I  dream'd  of  thee!  whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's  divinest  lore: 
And  now  I  view  thee,  'tis,  alas  !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  must  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore, 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar. 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  thee! 

LXII. 

Happier  in  this  than  mightiest  bards  have  been, 
Whose  fate  to  distant  homes  confined  their  lot, 
Shall  I  unmoved  behold  the  hallow'd  scene. 
Which  others  rave  of,  though  they  know  it  not? 
Though  here  no  more  Apollo  haunts  his  grot. 
And  thou,  the  Muses'  seat,  art  now  their  grave, 
Some  gentle  spirit  still  pervades  the  spot. 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  keeps  silence  in  the  cave. 
And  glides  with  glassy  foot  o'er  yon  melodious  wave. 

LXIII. 

•    Of  thee  hereafter. — Even  amidst  my  strain 
I  tum'd  aside  to  pay  my  homage  here; 
Forgot  the  land,  the  sons,  the  maids  of  Spain; 
Her  fate,  to  every  free-bom  bosom  dear; 


^I■ 


r 


■i ^ — 

570  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  Pn.GRIMAGE.       [canto  i. 

And  hail'd  thee,  not  perchance  without  a  tear. 
Now  to  my  theme — but  from  thy  holy  haunt 
Let  me  some  remnant,  some  memorial  bear; 
Yield  me  one  leaf  of  Daphne's  deathless  plant, 
Nor  let  thy  votary's  hope  be  deem'd  an  idle  vaunt. 


But  ne'er  didst  thou,  fair  Mount!  when  Greece  was  young, 
See  round  thy  giant  base  a  brighter  choir, 
Nor  e'er  did  Delphi,  when  her  priestess  sung 
The  Pythian  hymn  with  more  than  mortal  fire, 
Behold  a  train  more  fitting  to  inspire 
The  song  of  love  than  Andalusia's  maids, 
Nurst  in  the  glowing  lap  of  soft  desire: 
Ah !  that  to  these  were  given  such  peaceful  shades 
As  Greece  can  still  bestow,  though  Glory  fly  her  glades. 


Fair  is  proud  Seville;  let  her  country  boast 
Her  strength,  her  wealth,  her  site  of  ancient  days; 
But  Cadiz,  rising  on  the  distant  coast, 
Calls  forth  a  sweeter,  though  ignoble  praise. 
Ah,  Vice!  how  soft  are  thy  voluptuous  ways! 
While  boyish  blood  is  mantling,  who  can  'scape 
The  fascination  of  thy  magic  gaze? 
A  Cherub-hydra  round  us  dost  thou  gape. 
And  mould  to  every  taste  thy  dear  delusive  shape. 


When  Paphos  fell  by  Time— accursed  Time! 
The  Queen  who  conquers  all  must  yield  to  thee — 
The  Pleasures  fled,  but  sought  as  warm  a  clime; 
And  Venus,  constant  to  her  native  sea, 
To  nought  else  constant,  hither  deign'd  to  flee. 
And  fix'd  her  shrine  within  these  walls  of  white; 
Though  not  to  one  dome  circumscribeth  she 
Her  worship,  but,  devoted  to  her  rite, 
A  thousand  altars  rise,  for  ever  blazing  bright. 


Prom  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  startled  Mom, 
Peeps  blushing  on  the  revel's  laughing  crew, 
The  song  is  heard,  the  rosy  garland  worn; 
Devices  quaint,  and  frolics  ever  new. 
Tread  on  each  other's  kibes.    A  long  adieu 
He  bids  to  sober  joy  that  here  sojourns: 
Nought  Interrupts  the  riot,  though  in  lieu 
Of  true  devotion  monkish  incense  burns. 
And  love  and  prayer  unite,  or  rule  the  hour  by  turns. 


The  Sabbath  comes,  a  day  of  blessed  rest; 
What  hallows  it  upon  this  Christian  shore? 
Lo!  it  is  sacred  to  a  solemn  feast: 
Hark!  heard  you  not  the  forest  monarch's  roar? 


f 


iH- 


-Hf--T 


CANTO  I.]       CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  571 

Crashing  the  lance,  he  snuffs  the  spouting  gore 
Of  man  and  steed,  o'erthrown  beneath  his  horn; 
The  throng'd  arena  shakes  with  shouts  for  more; 
Yells  the  mad  crowd  o'er  entrails  freshly  torn, 
Nor  shrinks  the  female  eye,  nor  even  affects  to  moum^ 


The  seventh  day  this;  the  jubilee  of  man. 
London!  right  well  thou  know'st  the  day  of  prayer: 
Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  wash'd  artisan, 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air: 
Thy  coach  of  hackney,  whiskey,  one-horse  chair, 
And  humblest  gig  through  sundry  suburbs  whirl; 
To  Hampstead,  Brentford,  Harrow,  make  repair; 
Till  the  tired  jade  the  wheel  forgets  to  hurl. 
Provoking  envious  gibe  from  each  pedestrian  churl. 


Some  o'er  thy  Thamis  row  the  ribbon'd  fair, 
Others  along  the  safer  turnpike  fly; 
Some  Richmond-hill  ascend,  some  scud  to  Ware, 
And  many  to  the  steep  of  Highgate  hie. 
Ask  ye,  Boeotian  shades!  the  reason  why? 
'Tis  to  the  worship  of  the  solemn  Horn, 
Grasp'd  in  the  holy  hand  of  Mystery, 
In  whose  dread  name  both  men  and  maids  are  sworn, 
And  consecrate  the  oath  with  draught,  and  dance  till  mom. 

LXXI. 

All  have  their  fooleries — not  alike  are  thine, 
Fair  Cadiz,  rising  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea! 
Soon  as  the  matin  bell  proclaimeth  nine, 
Thy  saint  adorers  count  the  rosary: 
Much  is  the  Virgin  teased  to  shrive  them  free 
(Well  do  I  ween  the  only  virgin  there) 
From  crimes  as  numerous  as  her  beadsmen  be; 
Then  to  the  crowded  circus  forth  they  fare: 
Young,  old,  high,  low,  at  once  the  same  diversion  share. 


The  lists  are  oped,  the  spacious  area  clear'd. 
Thousands  on  thousands  piled  are  seated  round; 
Long  ere  the  first  loud  trumpet's  note  is  heard. 
No  vacant  space  for  lated  wight  is  found: 
Here  dons,  grandees,  but  chiefly  dames  abound, 
Skill'd  in  the  ogle  of  a  roguish  eye, 
Yet  ever  well  inclined  to  heal  the  wound; 
None  through  their  cold  disdain  are  doom'd  to  die. 
As  moon-struck  bards  complain,  by  Love's  sad  archery. 


Hush'd  is  the  din  of  tongues — on  gallant  steeds, 
With  milk-white  crest,  gold  spur,  and  light  poised  lance, 
Four  cavaliers  prepare  for  venturous  deeds, 
And  lowly  bending  to  the  lists  advance; 


672  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.       [canto  i. 

Rich  are  their  scarfs,  their  chargers  featly  prance: 
If  in  the  dangerous  game  they  shine  to-day, 
The  crowd's  loud  shout  and  ladies'  lovely  glance, 
Best  prize  of  better  acts,  they  bear  away. 
And  all  that  kings  or  chiefs  e'er  gain  their  toils  repay. 

LXXIV. 

In  costly  sheen  and  gaudy  cloak  array'd, 
But  all  a^oot,  the  light-Hmb'd  Matadore 
Stands  in  the  centre,  eager  to  invade 
The  lord  of  lowing  herds;  but  not  before 
The  ground,  with  cautious  tread,  is  traversed  o'er. 
Lest  aught  unseen  should  lurk  to  thwart  his  speed: 
His  arms  a  dart,  he  fights  aloof,  nor  more 
Can  man  achieve  without  the  friendly  steed — 
Alasl  too  oft  condemn'd  for  him  to  bear  and  bleed. 


Thrice  sounds  the  clarion;  lo!  the  signal  falls, 
The  den  expands,  and  Expectation  mute 
Gapes  round  the  silent  circle's  peopled  walls. 
Bounds  with  one  lashing  spring  the  mighty  brute, 
And  wildly  staring,  spurns,  with  sounding  foot, 
The  sand,  nor  blindly  rushes  on  his  foe: 
Here,  there,  he  points  his  threatening  front,  to  suit 
His  first  attack,  wide  waving  to  and  fro 
His  angry  tail;  red  rolls  his  eye's  dilated  glow. 


Sudden  he  stops;  his  eye  is  fix'd:  away, 
Away,  thou  heedless  boy!  prepare  the  spear; 
Now  is  thy  time,  to  perish,  or  display 
The  skill  that  yet  may  check  his  mad  career. 
With  well-timed  croupe  the  nimble  coursers  veer; 
On  foams  the  bull,  but  not  unscathed  he  goes; 
Streams  from  his  flank  the  crimson  torrent  clear: 
He  flies,  he  wheels,  distracted  with  his  throes:  [woes. 

Dart  follows  dart;  lance,  lance;  loud  bellowings  speak  hia 


Again  he  comes;  nor  dart  nor  lance  avail. 
Nor  the  wild  plunging  of  the  tortured  horse; 
Though  man  and  man's  avenging  arms  assail. 
Vain  are  his  weapons,  vainer  is  his  force: 
One  gallant  steed  is  stretch'd  a  mangled  corse; 
Another,  hideous  sight!  unseam'd  appears. 
His  gory  chest  unveils  life's  panting  source; 
Though  death-struck,  still  his  feeble  frame  he  rears; 
Staggering,  but  stemming  all,  his  lord  unharm'd  he  bears. 


Foil'd,  bleeding,  breathless,  furious  to  the  last, 
Full  in  the  centre  stands  the  bull  at  bay, 
'Mid  wounds,  and  clinging  darts,  and  lances  brast. 
And  foes  disabled  in  the  brutal  fray: 


■ih 


Byron. 


Thou  art  not  false,  but  thou  art  flckle. 


Page  572. 


•ft ^ — ~ — ^ 

CANTO  I.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  573 

And  now  the  Matadores  around  him  play, 
Shake  the  red  cloak,  and  poise  the  ready  brand: 
Once  more  through  all  he  bursts  his  thundering  way — 
Vain  rage!  the  mantle  quits  the  conynge  hand, 
Wraps  his  fierce  eye — 'tis  past— he  sinks  upon  the  sand! 


Where  his  vast  neck  just  mingles  with  the  spine, 
Sheathed  in  his  form  the  deadly  weapon  lies. 
He  stops— he  starts— disdaining  to  decline: 
Slowly  he  falls  amidst  triumphant  cries. 
Without  a  groan,  without  a  struggle,  dies. 
The  decorated  car  appears — on  high 
The  corse  is  piled— sweet  sight  for  vulgar  eyes — 
Four  steeds  that  spurn  the  rein,  as  swift  as  shy. 
Hurl  the  dark  bulk  along,  scarce  seen  in  dashing  by. 

LXXX. 

Such  the  ungentle  sport  that  oft  invites 
The  Spanish  maid,  and  cheers  the  Spanish  swain: 
Nurtured  in  blood  betimes,  his  heart  delights 
In  vengeance,  gloating  on  another's  pain. 
What  private  feuds  the  troubled  village  stain! 
Though  now  one  phalanx'd  host  should  meet  the  foe, 
Enough,  alas!  in  humble  homes  remain, 
To  meditate  'gainst  friends  the  secret  blow. 
For  bome  slight  cause  of  wrath,  whence  life's  warm  stream 
must  now. 


But  Jealousy  has  fled:  his  bars,  his  bolts, 
His  wither'd  sentinel.  Duenna  sage! 
And  all  whereat  the  generous  soul  revolts, 
Which  the  stern  dotard  deem'd  he  could  encage. 
Have  pass'd  to  darkness  with  the  vanish 'd  age. 
Who  late  so  free  as  Spanish  girls  were  seen, 
(Ere  War  uprose  in  his  volcanic  rage,) 
With  braided  tresses  bounding  o'er  the  green, 
While  on  the  gay  dance  shone  Night's  lover-loving  Queen? 


Oh!  many  a  time  and  oft  had  Harold  loved. 
Or  dream' d  he  loved,  since  rapture  is  a  dream; 
But  now  his  wayward  bosom  was  unmoved, 
For  not  yet  had  he  drunk  of  Lethe's  stream: 
And  lately  had  he  learn'd  with  truth  to  deem 
Love  has  no  gift  so  grateful  as  his  wings: 
How  fair,  how  young,  how  soft  soe'er  he  seem, 
Full  from  the  fount  of  Joy's  delicious  springs* 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  "its  bubbling  venom  flings. 

*  *' Medio  de  fonte  leponim, 

Surgit  amari  ahquid  quod  in  ipsis  floribus  angat."— Luc. 


*ii- 


4- 


574  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [canto  i. 

LXXXIII. 

Yet  to  the  beauteous  form  he  was  not  blind, 
Though  now  it  moved  him  as  it  moves  the  wise; 
Not  that  Philosophy  on  such  a  mind 
E'er  deign'd  to  bend  her  chastely-awful  eyes: 
But  Passion  raves  itself  to  rest  or  flies; 
And  Vice,  that  digs  her  own  voluptuous  tomb, 
Had  buried  long  his  hopes,  no  more  to  rise: 
Pleasure's  pall'd  victim!  life-abhorring  gloom 
Wrote  oa  his  faded  brow  curst  Cain's  unresting  doom. 


Still  he  beheld,  nor  mingled  with  the  throng; 
But  view'd  them  not  with  misanthrophic  hate: 
Fain  would  he  now  have  join'd  the  dance,  the  song; 
But  who  may  smile  that  sinks  beneath  his  fate? 
Nought  that  he  saw  his  sadness  could  abate: 
Yet  once  he  struggled  'gainst  the  demon's  sway, 
And  as  in  Beauty^s  bower  he  pensive  sate, 
Pour'd  forth  this  unpremeditated  lay. 
To  charms  as  fair  as  those  that  soothed  his  happier  day. 


TO  INEZ. 

1. 
Nav,  smile  not  at  my  sullen  brow; 

Alas!  I  cannot  smile  again: 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  weep,  and  haply  weep  in  vain. 

3. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  what  secret  woe 
I  bear,  corroding  joy  and  youth? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  know 
A  pang,  even  thou  must  fail  to  soothe? 

3. 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate. 
Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost. 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state. 
And  fly  from  all  I  prized  the  most: 


It  is  that  weariness  which  springs 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see: 
To  me  no  pleasure  Beauty  brings; 

Thine  eyes  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

5. 

It  is  that  settled,  ceaseless  gloom. 

The  fabled  Hebrew  wanderer  bore: 
That  will  not  look  beyond  the  tomb, 

But  cannot  hope  for  rest  before. 

♦^ , A- 


oa:jto  I.]       CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


575 


What  Exile  from  himself  can  flee? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life — ^the  demon  thought. 

7. 
Yet  others  rapt  in  pleasure  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake; 
Oh!  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awakel 

8. 
Through  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  go. 

With  many  a  retrospection  curst; 
And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  betides,  I've  known  the  worst. 

9. 

What  is  that  worst?    Nay,  do  not  ask — 

In  pity  from  the  search  forbear: 
Smile  on — nor  venture  to  unmask 

Man's  heart,  and  view  the  Hell  that's  there. 


Adieu,  fair  Cadiz!  yea,  a  long  adieu! 
Who  may  forget  how  well  thy  walls  have  stood? 
When  all  were  changing  thou  alone  wert  true. 
First  to  be  free,  and  last  to  be  subdued: 
And  if  amidst  a  scene,  a  shock  so  rude, 
Some  native  blood  was  seen  thy  streets  to  dye; 
A  traitor  only  fell  beneath  the  feud:* 
Here  all  were  noble,  save  Nobility; 
None  hugg'd  a  conqueror's  chain,  save  fallen  Chivalry! 

LXXXVI. 

Such  be  the  sons  of  Spain,  and  strange  her  fate  I 
They  fight  for  freedom,  who  were  never  free; 
A  kingless  people  for  a  nerveless  state. 
Her  vassals  combat  when  their  chieftains  flee. 
True  to  the  veriest  slaves  of  Treachery; 
Fond  of  a  land  which  gives  them  nought  but  life, 
Pride  points  the  path  that  leads  to  liberty; 
Back  to  the  struggle,  baffled  in  the  strife; 
War,  war  is  still  the  cry,  "  War  even  to  the  knife  1"+ 


Te,  who  would  more  of  Spain  and  Spaniards  know. 
Go,  read  whate'er  is  writ  of  bloodiest  strife: 
Whate'er  keen  Vengeance  urged  on  foreign  foe 
Can  act,  is  acting  there  against  man's  life: 
From  flashing  scimitar  to  secret  knife, 
War  mouldeth  there  each  weapon  to  his  need — 

♦Alluding  to  the  conduct  and  death  of  Solano,  the  governor  of 
Cadiz,  in  May,  1809. 
tPalafox's  answer  to  the  French  general  at  the  siege  of  Saragossa. 


676  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.       [canto  i. 

So  may  he  guard  the  sister  and  the  wife. 
So  may  he  make  each  curst  oppressor  bleed, 
So  may  such  foes  deserve  the  most  remorseless  deed! 

LXXXVIII. 

Flows  there  a  tear  of  pity  for  the  dead? 
Look  o'er  the  ravage  of  the  reeking  plain: 
Look  on  the  hands  with  female  slaughter  red; 
Then  to  the  dogs  resign  the  unburied  slain, 
Ttien  to  the  vulture  let  each  corse  remain; 
Albeit  unworthy  of  the  prey-bird's  maw. 
Let  their  bleach'd  bones,  and  blood's  unbleaching  stain, 
Long  mark  the  battlefield  with  hideous  awe: 
Thus  only  may  our  sons  conceive  the  scenes  we  sawl 

LXXXIX. 

Nor  yet,  alasl  the  dreadful  work  is  done; 
Fresh  legions  pour  adown  the  Pyrenees: 
It  deepens  still,  the  work  is  scarce  begun, 
Nor  mortal  eye  the  distant  end  foresees. 
Fallen  nations  gaze  on  Spain;  if  freed,  she  frees 
More  than  her  fell  Pizarros  once  enchain'd: 
Strange  retribution!  now  Columbia's  ease 
Repairs  the  wrongs  that  Quito's  sons  sustain'd, 
While  o'er  the  parent  clime  prowls  Murder  unrestrain'd. 

xc. 
Not  all  the  blood  at  Talavera  shed. 
Not  all  the  marvels  of  Barossa's  fight, 
Not  Albuera  lavish  of  the  dead. 
Have  won  for  Spain  her  well-asserted  right. 
When  shall  her  Olive-Branch  be  free  from  blight? 
When  shall  she  breathe  her  from  the  blushing  toil? 
How  many  a  doubtful  day  shall  sink  in  night, 
Ere  the  Frank  robber  turn  him  from  his  spoil. 
And  Freedom's  stranger-tree  grow  native  of  the  soil? 

xci. 
And  thou,  my  friend! — since  unavailing  woe 
Bursts  from  my  heart,  and  mingles  with  the  strain — 
Had  the  sword  laid  thee  with  the  mighty  low. 
Pride  might  forbid  e'en  Friendship  to  complain: 
But  thus  unlaurell'd  to  descend  in  vain. 
By  all  forgotten  save  the  lonely  breast, 
And  mix  unbleeding  with  the  boasted  slain. 
While  glory  crowns  so  many  a  meaner  crest! 
What  hadst  thou  done  to  sink  so  peacefully  to  rest? 

XCII. 

Oh,  known  the  earliest  and  esteem'd  the  most! 
Dear  to  a  heart  where  nought  was  left  so  dearl 
Though  to  my  hopeless  days  for  ever  lost, 
In  dreams  deny  me  not  to  see  thee  here! 
And  Morn  in  secret  shall  renew  the  tear 
Of  Consciousness  awaking  to  her  woes. 
And  Fancy  hover  o'er  thy  bloodless  bier, 
Till  my  frail  frame  return  to  whence  it  rose. 
And  moum'd  and  mourner  lie  united  in  repose. 


♦it 


^ 


CANTO  II.]       CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

XCIII. 


577 


Here  is  one  fytte  of  Harold's  pil^mage: 
Ye  who  of  him  may  further  seek  to  know, 
Shall  find  some  tidings  in  a  future  page, 
If  he  that  rhymeth  now  may  scribble  moe. 
Is  this  too  much?  stern  Critic!  say  not  so: 
Patience!  and  ye  shall  hear  what  he  beheld 
In  other  lands  where  he  was  doom'd  to  go: 
Lands  that  contain  the  monuments  of  Eld, 
Ere  Greece  and  Grecian  arts  by  barbarous  hands  were  quelled. 


CANTO  THE  SECOND. 


Comb,  blue-eyed  maid  of  heaven! — ^but  thou,  alas  I 
.  Didst  never  yet  one  mortal  song  inspire — 

Goddess  of  Wisdom!  here  thy  temple  was, 

And  is,  despite  of  war  and  wasting  fire,* 

And  years,  that  bade  thy  worship  to  expire: 

But  worse  than  steel,  and  flame,  and  ages  slow 

Is  the  dread  sceptre  and  dominion  dire 

Of  men  who  never  felt  the  sacred  glow 
That  thoughts  of  thee  and  thine  on  polish'd  breasts  bestow. 


ih- 


.    Ancient  of  daysl  august  Athena!  where,t 

Where  are  thy  men  of  might?  thy  grand  in  soul? 

*  Part  of  the  Acropolis  was  destroyed  by  the  explosion  of  amaga- 
aine  during  the  Venetian  siege. 

t  We  can  all  feel,  or  imagine,  the  regret  with  which  the  ruins  of 
cities,  once  the  capitals,  of  empires  are  beheld;  the  reflections  sug- 
gested by  such  objects  are  too  trite  to  require  recapitulation.  But 
never  did  the  littleness  of  man,  and  the  vanity  of  his  very  best 
virtues— of  patriotism  to  exalt,  and  of  valor  to  defend  his  country 
— appear  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  record  of  what  Athens  was, 
and  the  certainty  of  what  she  now  is.  This  theatre  of  contention 
between  mighty  factions,  of  the  struggles  of  orators,  the  exaltation 
and  deposition  of  tyrants,  the  triumph  and  punishment  of  generals, 
is  now  become  a  scene  of  petty  intrigue  ana  perpetual  disturbance, 
between  the  bickering  agents  of  certain  British  nobility  and  gentry. 
"The  wild  foxes,  the  owls  and  serpents  in  the  ruins  of  Babylon," 
were  surely  less  degrading  than  such  inhabitants.  The  Turks  have 
the  plea  of  conquest  for  their  tyranny,  and  the  Greeks  have  only 
suffered  the  fortune  of  war  incidental  to  the  bravest;  but  how  are 
the  mighty  fallen,  when  two  painters  contest  the  privilege  of  plun- 
dering the  Parthenon,  and  triumph  in  turn,  according  to  the  tenor 
of  each  succeeding  firman  I  Sylla  could  but  punish,  Philip  subdue, 
and  Xerxes  burn  Athens;  but  it  remained  for  the  paltry  antiqua- 
rian, and  his  despicable  agents,  to  render  her  comtemptible  as  him- 
self and  his  pursuits.  The  Parthenon,  before  its  destruction  in  part 
by  fire  during  the  Venetian  siege,  had  been  a  temple,  a  church,  and 
a  mosque.  In  each  point  of  view  it  is  an  object  of  regard :  it  changed 
its  worshippers,  but  still  it  was  a  place  of  worship  thrice  sacred  to 
devotion:  its  violation  is  a  triple  sacrifice .  But — 
•'  Man,  proud  man, 
Dress'd  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep." 


^H- 


^ m^ 

578  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.      [canto  ir., 

Gone— glimmering  through  the  dream  of  things  that  were: 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  Glory's  goal, 
They  WQn,  and  pass'd  away— is  this  the  whole? 
A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hour! 
The  warrior's  weapon  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  tower, 
Dim  with  the  mist  oi  years,  gray  flits  the  shade  of  power. 

III. 
Son  of  the  morning,  rise!  approach  you  here! 
Come — ^^but  molest  not  yon  defenceless  um; 
Look  on  this  spot — a  nation's  sepulchre! 
Abode  of  gods,  whose  shilnes  no  longer  bum. 
Even  gods  must  yield — religions  take  their  turn; 
'Twas  Jove's — "lis  Mohammed's — and  other  creeds 
Win  rise  with  other  years,  till  man  shall  learn 
Vainly  his  incense  soars,  his  victim  bleeds; 
Poor  cMld  of  Doubt  and  Death,  whose  hope  is  bviilt  on  reeds, 

IV. 

Bound  to  the  earth,,  he  lifts  his  eye  to  heaven — 
Is't  not  enough,  unhappy  thing!  to  know 
Thou  art?    Is  this  a  boon  so  kindly  given, 
That  being,  thou  wouldst  be  again,  and  go, 
Thou  know'st  not,  reck'st  not  to  what  region,  so 
On  earth  no  more,  but  mingled  with  the  skies! 
Still  wilt  thou  dream  on  future  joy  and  woe? 
Regard  and  weigh  yon  dust  before  it  flies: 
That  little  urn  saith  more  than  thousand  homflles. 

V. 

Or  burst  the  vanish'd  Hero's  lofty  mound;* 
Far  on  the  solitary  shore  he  sleeps:*  * 

.  He  fell,  and  falling  nations  mourn'd  around; 
But  now  not  one  of  saddening  thousands  weeps, 
Nor  warlike  worshipper  his  vigil  keeps 
Where  demi-gods  appeared,  as  records  tell. 
Remove  yon  skull  from  out  the  scatter 'd  heaps: 
Is  that  a  temple  where  a  God  may  dwell? 
Why,  even  the  worm  at  last  disdains  her  shatter'd  celll 

VI, 
Look  on  its  broken  arch,  its  ruin'd  wall,  ~~ 

Its  chambers  desolate,  and  portals  foul; 
Yes,  thisKwas  once  Ambition's  airy  hall, 
The  dome  of  Thought,  the  palace  of  the  Soul: 
Behold  through  each  lack-lustre,  eyeless  hole, 
The  gay  recess  of  Wisdom  and  Wit, 
And  Passion's  host,  that  never  brook'd  control: 
Can  all  saint,  sage,  or  sophist  ever  writ, 
People  this  lonely  tower,  this  tenement  refit? 

*  It  was  not  always  the  custom  of  the  Greeks  to  burn  their  dead, 
the  greater  Ajax,  in  particulnr,  was  interred  entire.  '  Almost  all  the 
chiefs  becamo  prods  after  their  decease;  and  he  was  indeed  neglected, 
who  had  not  annual  games  near  his  tomb,  or  festivals  in  honor  of 
his  memory  by  his  countrymen,  as  Achilles,  Brasidns,  Ac,  and  at 
last  even  Antmous,  whose  death  was  as  Iieroic  as  his  life  was  in- 
famous. 

-^ *♦ 


-t 


^ — ___ — — ^ 

CANTO  II.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  579  ^ 


Well  didst  thou  speak,  Athena's  wisest  son! 
"  All  that  we  know  is,  nothing  can  be  known." 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  what  we  cannot  shun? 
Each  hath  his  pang,  but  feeble  sufferers  gi-oan 
With  brain-born  dreams  of  evil  all  their  own. 
Pursue  what  Chance  or  Fate  proclaimeth  best; 
Peace  waits  us  on  the  shores  of  Acheron: 
There  no  forced  banquet  claims  the  sated  guest. 
But  Silence  spreads  the  couch  of  ever  welcome  rest. 

VIII. 

Yet  if,  as  holiest  men  have  deem'd,  there  be 
A  land  of  souls  beyond  that  sable  shore, 
To  shame  the  doctrine  of  the  Sadducee 
And  sophists,  madly  vain  of  dubious  lore; 
How  sweet  it  were  in  concert  to  adore 
With  those  who  made  our  mortal  labors  light! 
To  hear  each  voice  we  fear'd  to  hear  no  more! 
Behold  each  mighty  shade  reveal'd  to  sight. 
The  Bactrian,  Samian  sage,  and  all  who  taught  the  right! 

IX. 

There,  thou! — whose  love  and  life  together  fled. 
Have  left  me  here  to  love  and  live  in  vain — 
Twined  with  my  heart,  and  can  I  deem  thee  dead, 
When  busy  memory  flashes  on  my  brain? 
Well — I  will  dream  that  we  may  meet  again, 
And  woo  the  vision  to  my  vacant  breast: 
If  aught  of  young  Remembrance  then  remain, 
Be  as  it  may  Futurity's  behest. 
For  me  'twefe  bliss  enough  to  know  thy  spirit  blest! 

X. 

Here  let  rae  sit  upon  this  massy  stone, 
The  marble  column's  yet  unshaken  base! 
Here,  son  of  Saturn!  was  thy  favorite  throne!* 
Mightiest  of  many  such!     Hence  let  me  trace 
The  latent  grandeur  of  thy  dwelling-place. 
It  may  not  be:  nor  even  can  Fancy's  eye 
Restore  what  time  hath  labor'd  to  deface. 
Yet  these  proud  pillars  claim  no  passing  sigh; 
Unmoved  the  Moslem  sits,  the  light  Greek  carols  by. 

XI. 

But  who,  of  all  the  plunderers  of  yon  fane 

On  high,  where  Pallas  llnger'd,  loth  to  flee. 

The  latest  relic  of  her  ancient  reign; 

The  last,  the  worst,  dull  spoiler,  who  was  he? 

Blush,  Caledonia!  such  thy  son  could  be! 

England!  I  joy  no  child  he  was  of  thine: 

Thy  free-born  men  should  spare  ^hat  once  was  free; 

Yet  they  could  violate  each  saddening  shrine. 
And  bear  these  altars  o'er  the  long-reluctant  brine. 
*  The  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympus,  of  which  sixteen  columns, 
entirely  of  marble,  yet  survive:  originally  there  were  one  hundred 
and  fifty.    These  columns,  however,  are  by  many  supposed  to  have 
belonged  to  the  Pantheon. 


■iK 


-ih 


580  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  n. 

xir. 
But  most  the  modern  Pict's  i^oble  boast, 
To  rive  what  Goth,  aod  Turk,  and  Time  hath  spared: 
Cold  as  the  crags  upon  his  native  coast, 
His  mind  as  barren  and  his  heart  as  hard. 
Is  he  whose  head  conceived,  whose  hand  prepared, 
Aught  to  displace  Athena's  poor  remains: 
Her  sons  too  weak  the  sacred  shrine  to  guard, 
Yet  felt  some  portion  of  their  mother's  pains, 
And  never  knew,  till  then,  the  weight  of  Despot's  chains. 

XIII. 

"What!  shall  it  e'er  be  said  by  British  tongue, 
Albion  was  happy  in  Athena's  tears? 
Though  in  thy  name  the  slaves  her  bosom  wrung, 
Tell  not  the  deed  to  blushing  Europe's  ears; 
The  ocean  queen,  the  free  Britannia,  bears 
The  last  poor  plunder  fr»m  a  bleeding  land: 
Yes,  she,  whose  generous  aid  her  name  endears. 
Tore  down  those  remnants  with  a  harpy's  hand. 
Which  envious  Eld  forbore,  and  tyrants  left  to  stand. 

XIV. 

Where  was  thine  -^gis,  Pallas!  that  appall'd 
Stern  Alaric  and  Havoc  on  their  way?* 
Where  Peleus'  son?  whom  Hell  in  vain  enthrall'd, 
His  shade  from  Hades  upon  that  dread  day 
Bursting  to  light  in  terrible  array! 
What!  could  not  Pluto  spare  the  chief  once  more, 
To  scare  a  second  robber  from  his  prey? 
Idly  he  wander'd  on  the  Stygian  shore. 
Nor  now  preserved  the  walls  he  loved  to  shield  before. 

XV. 

Cold  is  the  heart,  fair  Greece!  that  looks  on  thee, 
Nor  feels  as  lovers  o'er  the  dust  they  loved; 
Dull  is  the  eye  that  will  not  weep  to  see 
Thy  walls  defaced,  thy  mouldering  shrines  removed 
By  British  hands,  which  it  had  best  behoved 
To  guard  those  relics  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Curst  be  the  hour  when  from  their  isle  they  roved, 
And  once  again  thy  hapless  bosom  gored. 
And  snatch'd  thy  shrinking  gods  to  northern  climes  abhorr'dl 

XVI. 

But  where  is  Harold?    Shall  I  then  forget 
To  urge  the  gloomy  wanderer  o'er  the  wave? 
Little  reck'd  he  of  all  that  men  regret; 
No  loved  one  now  in  feign'd  lament  could  rave; 
No  friend  the  parting  hand  extended  gave. 
Ere  the  cold  stranger  pass'd  to  other  climes: 
Hard  is  his  heart  whom  charms  may  not  enslave; 
But  Harold  felt  not  as  in  otlier  times. 
And  left  without  a  sigh  the  land  of  war  and  crimes. 

♦  AccordmRto  Zosimus,  Minerva  and  Achilles  fiiK'litciiod  Alanc 
from  the  Acropolis;  but  others  relate  that  the  (Jutliic  king  was 
nearly  as  mischievous  as  the  Scottish  peer.— See  Chandler. 


^^* 


_ ___ _ — ft 

CANTO  II.]     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  581 

XVII. 

He  that  hath  sail'd  upon  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Has  view'd  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight; 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be, 
The  white  sail  set,  the  gallant  frigate  tight; 
Masts,  spires,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right. 
The  glorious  main  expanding  o'er  the  bow. 
The  convoy  spread  like  wild  swans  in  their  flight, 
The  dullest  sailer  wearing  bravely  now. 
So  gaily  curl  the  waves  before  each  dashing  prow. 


And  oh,  the  little  warlike  world  within! 
The  well-reeved  guns,  the  netted  canopy,* 
The  hoarse  command,  the  busy  humming  din, 
When,  at  a  word,  the  tops  are  mann'd  on  high: 
Hark  to  the  Boatswain's  call,  the  cheering  cry! 
While  through  the  seaman's  hand  the  tackle  glides; 
Or  schoolboy  Midshipman  that,  standing  by, 
Strains  his  shrill  pipe,  as  good  or  ill  betides. 
And  well  the  docile  crew  that  skilful  urchin  guides. 


White  is  the  glassy  deck,  withoul  a  stain, 
Where  on  the  watch  the  staid  Lieutenant  walks: 
Look  on  that  part,  which  sacred  doth  remain 
For  the  lone  Chieftain,  who  majestic  stalks. 
Silent  and  fear'd  by  all — not  oft  he  talks        m 
With  aught  beneath  him,  if  he  would  preserve 
That  strict  restraint,  which  broken,  ever  balks 
Conquest  and  Fame:  but  Britons  rarely  swerve 
From  law,  however  stern,  which  tends  their  strength  to 
nerve. 

XX. 

Blow!  swiftly  blow,  thou  keel-compelling  gale! 
Till  the  broad  sun  withdraws  his  lessening  ray; 
Then  must  the  pennant-bearer  slacken  sail. 
That  lagging  barks  may  make  their  lazy  way. 
Ah!  grievance  sore,  and  listless  dull  delay. 
To  waste  on  sluggish  hulks  the  sweetest  breeze  I 
What  leagues  are  lost  before  the  dawn  of  day, 
Thus  loitering  pensive  on  the  willing  seas. 
The  flapping  sail  haul'd  down  to  halt  for  logs  like  these! 


The  moon  Is  up;  by  Heaven  a  lovely  eve! 
Long  streams  of  light  o'er  dancing  waves  expand; 
Now  lads  on  shore  may  sigh,  and  'maids  believe: 
Such  be  our  fate  when  we  return  taland! 
Meantime  some  rude  Arion's  restless  hand 
Wakes  the  brisk  harmony  that  sailors  love; 
A  circle  there  of  merry  listeners  stand. 
Or  to  some  well-knq^n  measure  featly  move. 
Thoughtless,  as  if  on  shore  they  still  were  free  to  rove. 

♦  To  prevent  blocks  or  splinters  from  falling  on  deck  during  action. 


-^i- 


* *-. 

582  CfllLDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,      [cjlnto  ii. 


Through  Calpe's  straits  survey  the  steepy  shore; 
Europe  and  Afric  ou  each  other  ^azel 
Lands  of  the  dark-eyed  Maid  and  dusky  Moor 
Alike  beheld  beneath  pale  Hecate's  blaze: 
How  swiftly  on  the  Spanish  shore  she  plays, 
Disclosing  rock,  and  slope,  and  forest  brown, 
Distinct,  though  darkening  with  her  waning  phase; 
But  Mauritania's  giant-shadows  frown, 
From  mountain-cliff  to  coast  desending  sombre  down. 

xxiir. 
'Tis  night,  when  Meditation  bids  us  feel 
We  once  have  loved,  though  love  is  at  an  end: 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its  baffled  zeal, 
Though  friendless  now,  will  dream  it  had  a  friend. 
Who  with  the  weight  of  years  would  wish  to  bend, 
When  Youth  itself  survives  young  Love  and  joy« 
Alas!  when  niingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy! 
Ah!  happy  years!  once  more  who  would  not  be  a  boy? 

XXIV. 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side. 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  Hope  and  Pride, 
Andttes  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear. 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possess'd 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear; 
A  flashing  pang!  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 


To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene. 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell, 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen. 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold; 
Alone  o'er  steejis  and  foaming  falls  to  lean; 
This  is  not  solitude;  'tis  but  to  hold 
Converse  with  Nature's  charms,  and  view  her  stores  unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But  'midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men. 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  lired  denizen. 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless; 
Minions  of  splendor  shrinking  from  distress! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued; 
This  is  to  be  alone;  this,  this  is  solitude! 


■s ^ *♦ 

CANTO  TI-]     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  583 

XXVII. 

More  blest  the  life  of  godly  eremite, 
Such  as  on  lonely  Athos  may  be  seen. 
Watching  at  eve  upon  the  giant  height, 
Which  looks  o'er  waves  so  blue,  skies  so  serene, 
That  he  who  there  at  such  an  hour  hath  been 
Will  wistful  linger  on  that  hallow'd  spot; 
Then  slowly  tear  him  from  the  'witching  scene. 
Sigh  forth  one  wish  that  such  had  been  his  lot, 
Then  turn  to  hate  a  world  he  had  almost  forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass  we  the  long,  unvarying  course,  the  track 
Oft  trod,  that  never  leaves  a  trace  behind; 
Pass  we  the  calm,  the  gale,  the  change,  the  tack, 
And  each  well-known  caprice  of  wave  and  wind; 
Pass  we  the  joys  and  sorrows  sailors  find, 
Cooped  in  their  winged  sea-gii"t  citadel; 
The  foul,  the  fair,  the  contrary,  the  kind, 
As  breezes  rise  and  fall  and  billows  swell. 
Till  on  some  jocund  morn — lo,  land5  and  all  is  well. 

XXIX. 

But  not  in  silence  pass  €alypso's  isles,* 
The  sister  tenants  of  the  middle  deep; 
There  for  the  weary  still  a  haven  smiles. 
Though  the  fair  goddess  long  hath  ceased  to  weep. 
And  o^er  her  cliffs  a  fruitless  watch  to  keep 
For  him  who  dared  prefer  a  mortal  bride: 
Here,  too,  his  boy  essay'd  the  dreadful  leap 
Stem  Mentor  urged  from  high  to  yonder  tide; 
While  thus  of  both  bereft,  the  nymph-queen  doubly  sigh'd. 

XXX 

Her  reign  is  past,  her  gentle  glories  gone: 
But  trust  not  this;  too  easy  youth,  beware! 
A  mortal  sovereign  holds  her  dangerous  throne, 
And  thou  may'st  find  a  new  Calypso  there. 
Sweet  Florence!  could  another  ever  share 
This  wayward,  loveless  heart,  it  would  be  thine: 
But  check'd  by  every  tie,  I  may  not  dare 
To  cast  a  worthless  offering  at  thy  shrine. 
Nor  ask  so  dear  a  breast  to  feci  one  pang  for  mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus  Harold  deem'd,  as  on  that  lady's  eye 
He  look'd,  and  met  its  beam  without  a  thought. 
Save  Admiration  glancing  harmless  by: 
Love  kept  aloof,  albeit  not  far  remote. 
Who  knew  his  votary  often  lost  and  caught, 
But  knew  him  as  his  worshipper  no  more, 
And  ne'er  again  the  boy  his  bosom  sought: 
Since  now  he  vainly  urged  him  to  adore. 
Well  deem'd  the  little  god  his  ancient  sway  was  o'er. 

*  Goza  is  said  to  ha\»e  been  the  island  of  Calypso. 

*« -ffl- 


*^ 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  ii. 


Fair  Florence  found,  in  sooth  with  gome  amaze, 
One  who,  'twas  said,  still  sigh'd  to  all  he  saw, 
Withstand,  unmoved,  the  lustre  of  her  gaze, 
Which  others  hail'd  with  real  or  mimic  awe, 
Their  hope,  their  doom,  their  punishment,  their  law; 
AH  that  gay  Beauty  from  her  bondsmen  claims: 
And  much  she  marveH'd  that  a  youth  so  raw 
Nor  felt,  nor  feign' d  at  least,  the  oft-told  flames 
Whichjthough  sometimes  they  frown,  yet  rarely  anger  dames. 


XXXIII. 

Little  knew  she  that  seeming  marble  heart, 
Now  mask'd  in  silence  or  withheld  by  pride. 
Was  not  unskilful  in  the  spoiler's  art. 
And  spread  its  snares  licentious  far  and  wide; 
Nor  from  the  base  pursuit  had  tum'd  aside. 
As  long  as  aught  was  worthy  to  pursue: 
But  Harold  on  such  art«  no  more  relied; 
And  had  he  doted  on  those  eyes  so  blue, 
Tet  never  would  he  join  the  lover's  whining  crew. 


Not  much  be  kens,  I  ween,  of  woman's  breast, 
Who  thinks  that  wanton  thing  is  won  by  sighs; 
What  careth  she  for  hearts  when  once  possess'd? 
Do  proper  homage  to  thine  idol's  eyes; 
But  not  too  humbly,  or  she  will  despise 
Thee  and  thy  suit,  though  told  in  moving  tropes; 
Disguise  even  tenderness,  if  thou  art  wise; 
Brisk  Confidence  still  best  with  woman  copes; 
Pique  her  and  soothe  in  turn,  soon  Passion  crowns  thy  hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis  an  old  lesson;  Time  approves  it  true, 
And  those  who  know  it  best  deplore  it  most; 
When  all  is  won  that  all  desire  to  woo, 
The  paltry  prize  is  hardly  worth  the  cost: 
Youth  wasted,  minds  degraded,  honor  lost. 
These  are  thy  fruits,  successful  Passion!  these  1 
If,  kindly  cruel,  early  Hope  is  crost. 
Still  to  the  last  it  rankles,  a  disease. 
Not  to  be  cured  when  Love  itself  forgets  to  please. 


Away!  nor  let  me  loiter  in  my  song, 
For  we  have  many  a  mountain-path  to  tread. 
And  many  a  varied  shore  to  sail  along, 
By  pensive  Sadness,  not  by  Fiction,  led — 
Climes,  fair  withal  as  ever  mortal  head 
Imagined  in  its  little  schemes  of  thought; 
Or  e'er  in  new  Utopias  were  ared. 
To  teach  man  what  he  might  be,  or  he  ought; 
If  that  corrupted  thing  could  ever  such  be  taught. 


il- 


* — *. 

CANTO  ii.J     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  585 


Dear  Nature  is  the  kindest  mother  still, 
Though  always  changing,  in  her  aspect  mild: 
From  her  bare  bosom  let  me  take  my  fill, 
Her  never-wean'd,  though  not  her  favor'd  child. 
Oh!  she  is  fairest  in  her  features  wild, 
Where  nothing  polish'd  dares  pollute  her  path: 
To  me  by  day  or  night  she  ever  smiled, 
Though  I  have  mark'd  her  when  none  other  hath. 
And  sought  her  more  and  more,  and  loved  her  best  in  wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land  of  Albania!  where  Iskander  rose! 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he  his  namesake,  whose  oft-baffled  foes 
Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprise: 
Land  of  Albania!  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  mcnl 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise. 
And  the  pale  cresent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city's  ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe  Harold  sail'd,  and  pass'd  the  barren  spot, 
Where  sad  Penelope  o'erlook'd  the  wave;* 
And  onward  viewed  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot. 
The  lover's  refuge,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 
Dark  Sappho!  could  not  verse  immortal  save 
That  breast  imbued  with  such  immortal  fire? 
Could  slie  not  live  who  life  eternal  gave? 
If  life  eternal  may  await  the  lyre, 
That  only  Heaven  to  which  Earth's  children  may  aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas  on  a  Grecian  autumn's  gentle  eve 
Childe  Harold  hail'd  Leucadia's  cape  afar;t 
A  spot  he  long'd  to  see,  nor  cared  to  leave: 
Oft  did  he  mark  the  scenes  of  vanish'd  war, 
Actium,  Lepanto,  fatal  Trafalgar:^ 
Mark  them  unmoved,  for  he  would  not  delight 
(Born  beneath  some  remote  inglorious  star) 
In  themes  of  bloody  fray,  or  gallant  fight, 
But  loathed  the  bravo's  trade,  and  laugh'd  at  martial  wight. 

XLI. 

But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  woe. 
And  hail'd  the  last  resort  of  fruitless  love. 
He  felt,  or  deem'd'  he  felt,  no  common  glow: 
And  as  the  stately  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 

*  Ithaca. 

t  Leucadia,  now  Santa  Maura.  From  the  promontory  (the  Lover's 
Leap)  Sappho  is  said  to  have  thrown  herself. 

X  Actium  and  Trafalgar  need  no  further  mention.  The  battle  of 
Lepanto,  equally  bloody  and  considerable,  but  less  known,  was 
fought  in  the  Gulf  of  Patras.  Eere  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  lost 
his  left  hand. 


it 


^ _ — -^ 

686  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [cakto  ii. 

He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont, 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid  front. 

XLII. 

Mom  dawns;  and  with  it  stem  Albania's  hills, 
Dark  Suli's  rocks,  and  Pindus'  inland  peak. 
Robed  half  in  mist,  bedew'd  with  snowy  rills, 
Array'd  in  many  a  dun  Jind  purple  streak. 
Arise;  and,  as  the  clouds  along  them  break. 
Disclose  the  dwelling  of  the  mountaineer: 
Here  roams  the  wolf,  the  ea^le  whets  his  beak. 
Birds,  beasts  of  prey,  and  wilder  men  appear. 
And  gathering  storms  around  convulse  the  closing  year. 

XLIII. 

Now  Harold  felt  himself  at  length  alone, 
And  bade  to  Christian  tongues  a  long  adieu: 
Now  he  adrentured  on  a  shore  unknown. 
Which  all  admire,  but  many  dread  to  view: 
His  breast  was  arm'd  'gainst  fate,  his  wants  were  few; 
Peril  he  sought  not,  but  ne'er  shrank  to  meet: 
The  scene  was  savage,  but  the  scene  was  new; 
This  made  the  ceaseless  toil  of  travel  sweet. 
Beat  back  keen  winter's  blast,  and  welcomed  summer's  heat. 

XLIV. 

Here  the  red  cross,  for  still  the  cross  is  here, 
Though  sadly  scoff  'd  at  by  the  circumcised. 
Forgets  that  pride  to  pamper' d  priesthood  dear; 
Churchman  and  votary  alike  despised. 
Foul  Superstitionl  howsoe'er  disguised. 
Idol,  saint,  virgin,  prophet,  crescent,  cross. 
For  whatsoever  symbol  thou  art  prized, 
Thou  sacerdotal  gain,  but  general  loss! 
Who  from  true  worship's  gold  can  separate  thy  dross? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman,  lovely,  harmless  thing! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host, 
Did  many  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  king* 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring: 
Look  where  the  second  Caesar's  trophies  roseif 
Now,  like  the  hands  that  rear'd  them,  withering; 
Imperial  anarchs,  doubling  human  woes! 
God!  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose? 

XLVI. 

From  the  dark  barriers  of  that  rugged  clime, 
Even  to  the  centre  of  Illyria's  vales, 

*  It  i3  said  that,  on  the  day  previous  to  the  battle  of  Actium,  An- 
thony had  thirteen  kinps  at  his  levee. 

t  Nioopolis,  whose  ruins  are  most  extensive,  is  nt  some  distance 
from  Actium,  where  the  wall  of  the  Hippodrome  survives  in  a  few 
fragments.  These  ruins  are  larpx^  masses  of  brickwork,  the  bricks 
of  which  are  joined  by  interstices  of  mortar,  as  large  as  the  bricks 
themselves,  and  equally  durable. 

*ji— ;:- i^ 


1 


CANTO  II.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,  387 

Childe  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales; 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen;  nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most, 
To  match  some  spots  that  lurk  within  this  louring  coast. 


He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Acherusia's  lake,* 
And  left  the  primal  city  of  the  land, 
And  onwards  did  his  farther  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,  whose  dread  commandt 
Is  lawless  law;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold: 
Yet  here  and  there  some  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  their  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield,  unless  to  gold.  J 


Monastic  Zitza!  from  thy  shady  brow,§ 
Thou  small,  but  favor'd  spot  of  holy  ground! 
Where'er  we  gaze,  around,  above,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found: 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain  all  abound, 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole: 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound 
Tells  where  the  volumed  cataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks,  that  shock  yet  please  the  souL 

XLIX. 

Amidst  the  grove  that  crowais  yon  tufted  hill, 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still, 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity, 
The  convent's  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high: 
Here  dwells  the  caloyerj  nor  rude  is  he, 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer;  the  passer-by 
Is  welcome  still;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  see. 

♦  According  to  Pouqueville,  the  lake  of  Yanina;  but  Pouqueville 
is  always  out, 

t  The  celebrated  Ali  Pacha.  Of  this  extraordinary  man  there  is 
an  incorrect  account  in  Pouqueville's  Travels. 

JFive  thousand  Suliotes.  among  the  rocks  and  in  the  castle  of 
Suli.  withstood  thirty  thousand  Albanians  for  eighteen  years;  the 
castle  at  last  was  taken  by  bribery.  In  this  contest  there  were  sev 
eral  acts  performed  not  unworthy  of  the  better  days  of  Greece. 

§  The  convent  and  village  of  Zitza  are  four  hours'  journey  from 
Joannina,  or  Yanina,  the  capital  of  the  pachalic.  In  the  valley  the 
river  Kalamas  (once  the  Acheron)  flows,  and  not  far  from  Zitza  forms 
a  fine  cataract.  The  situation  is  perhaps  the  finest  in  Greece, 
though  the  approach  to  Delvinachi  and  parts  of  Acarnania  and 
JEtoMa.  may  contest  the  palm.  Delphi,  Parnassus,  and,  in  Attica, 
even  Cape  Colonnaand  PortRaphti,  are  very  inferior;  as  also  every 
scene  in  Ionia,  or  the  Troad:  lam  almost  inclined  to  add  the  ap- 
proach tJb  Constantinople;  but.  from  the  different  featm'esof  tne 
last,  a  comparison  can  hardly  be  made. 

t  The  Greek  monks  are  so  called. 

♦* rtl' 


iir 


588  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [cahto  u. 

L. 

Here  in  the  sultriest  season  let  him  rest, 
Fresh  is  the  green  beneath  those  aged  trees; 
Here  winds  of  gentlest  wing  will  fan  his  breast. 
From  heaven  itself  he  may  inhale  the  breeze: 
The  plain  is  far  beneath — oh!  let  him  seize 
Pure  pleasure  while  he  can;  the  scorching  ray 
Here  pierceth  not,  impregnate  with  disease: 
Then  let  his  length  the  loitering  pilgrim  lay, 
And  gaze,  untired,  the  mom,  the  noon,  the  eve  away. 

LI. 

Dusky  and  huge,  enlai^ng  on  the.sight, 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre,* 
Chimaera's  alps  extend  from  left  to  right: 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir; 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flow,  the  mountain  fir 
Nodding  above;  behold  black  Acheron !t 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto!  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates,  my  shade  shall  seek  for  none. 

mi. 

Ne  city's  towers  pollute  the  lovely  view; 
Unseen  is  Yanina,  though  not  remote, 
Veil'd  by  the  screen  of  hills:  here  men  are  few, 
Scanty  the  hamlet,  rare  the  lonely  cot; 
But,  peering  down  each  precipice,  the  goat 
Browseth:  and,  pensive  o'er  his  scatter'd  flock, 
Tlie  little  shepherd  in  his  white  capotej 
Doth  lean  his  boyish  form  along  the  rock. 
Or  in  his  cave  awaits  the  tempest^^s  short-lived  shock. 

UII. 

Oh!  where,  Dodona!  is  thine  aged  grove. 
Prophetic  fount,  and  oracle  divine? 
What  valley  echoed  the  response  of  Jove? 
What  trace  remaineth  of  the  Thunderer's  shrine? 
All,  all  forgotten — and  shall  man  repine 
That  his  frail  bonds  to  fleeting  life  are  broke? 
Cease,  fool!  the  fate  of  gods  may  well  be  thine: 
Wouldst  thou  survive  the  marble  or  the  oak? 
When  nations,  tongues,  and  worlds  must  sink  beneath  the 
stroke! 


Epirus'  bounds  recede,  and  mountains  fail; 
Tired  of  up-gazing  still,  the  wearied  eye 
Reposes  gladly  on  as  smooth  a  vale 
As  ever  Spring  yclad  in  grassy  dye: 
Even  on  a  plain  no  humble  beauties  lie. 
Where  some  bold  river  breaks  the  long  expanse, 
And  woods  along  the  banks  are  waving  high, 
Wliose  shadows  in  the  glassy  waters  dance, 
Or  with  the  moonbeam  sleep  in  midnight's  solemn  trance. 

*  The  Chimariot  mountains  appear  to  have  been  volca&ic. 
t  Now  called  Kalamas. 
I  Albanese  cloak. 


-t 


^K 


CANTO  II.]     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  589 

LV. 

The  SUB  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit,* 
The  Laos  wide  and  fierce  came  rolling  by;+ 
The  shades  of  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When,  down  the  steep  banks  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  o'erlook  the  stream;  and  drawing  nigh. 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 
Swelling  the  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening  glen. 

LVI. 

He  pass'd  the  sacred  Harem's  silent  tower, 
And  underneath  the  wide  o'erarching  gate 
Survey'd  the  dwelling  of  this  chief  of  power, 
Where  all  around  proclaim 'd  his  high  estate. 
Amidst  no  common  pomp  the  despot  sate. 
While  busy  preparation  shook  the  court, 
Slaves,  eunuchs,  soldiers,  guests,  and  santons  wait; 
'     Within,  a  palace,  and  without  a  fort: 
Here  men  of  every  clime  appear  to  make  resort. 


Richly  caparison 'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store, 
Circled  the  wide-extending  court  below; 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridor; 
And  oft-times  through  the  area's  echoing  door, 
Some  high-capp'd  Tartar  spurr'd  his  steed  away: 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array. 
While  the  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced  the  close  of  day. 


The  wild  Albanian  kirtlcd  to  his  knee, 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold  embroider' d  garments,  fair  to  see: 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedon; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on. 
And  crooked  glaive;  the  lively,  supple  Greek 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son; 
The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak. 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek. 


Are  mix'd  conspicuous;  some  recline  in  groups, 
Scanning  the  motley  scene  that  varies  round; 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops. 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found; 

*  Anciently  Mount  Tomarus. 

tThe  river  Laos  was  full  at  the  time  the  author  passed  it;  and, 
immediately  abovo  Tepnleen,  was  to  the  eye  as  wide  as  the  Thames 
at  Westminster;  at  least  i  i  the  opinion  of  the  author  and  his  fellow- 
traveller.  In  the  summer  it  must  be  much  narrower.  It  certainly 
is  the  finest  river  in  the  Levant;  neither  Achelous,  Alpheus,  Ache- 
ron, Scamander,  nor  Cayster,  approached  it  in  breadth  or  beauty. 


t 


^^ 


^ : 

590  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  il 

Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground; 
Half-whispering  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate; 
Hark!  from  the  mosque  the  nightly  solemn  sound, 
The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  the  minaret, 
**  There  is  no  god  but  Godl— to  prayer— lol  God  is  greati" 

LX. 

Just  at  this  season  Ramazani's  fast 
Through  the  long  day  its  penance  did  maintain. 
But  when  the  lingering  twilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again: 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  from  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
As  page  and  slave  anon  were  passing  out  and  in. 

LXI. 

Here  woman's  voice  is  never  heard:  apart. 
And  scarce  permitted,  guarded,  veil'd,  to  move, 
She  yields  to  one  her  person  and  her  heart. 
Tamed  to  her  cage,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  rove: 
For,  not  unhappy  in  her  master's  love. 
And  joyful  in  a  mother's  gentlest  cares, 
Blest  cares!  all  other  feelings  far  above! 
Herself  more  sweetly  rears  the  babe  she  bears; 
Who  never  quits  the  breast,  no  meaner  passion  shares. 


In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  hving  water  from  the  centre  rose. 
Whose  bubbling  did  a  genial  freshness  fling. 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Ali  reclined,  a  man  of  war  and  woes: 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged  venerable  face. 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath,  and  stain  him  with  disgrace. 

■LXUl. 

It  is  not  that  yon  hoary  lengthening  beard 
111  suits  the  passions  which  belong  to  youth: 
Love  conquers  age — so  Ilaflz  hath  averr'd, 
80  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth— 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  ruth, 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth: 
Blood  follows  blood,  and  through  their  mortal  span. 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began. 

'  LXIV. 

'Mid  many  things  most  new  to  ear  and  eye 
The  pilgrim  rested  here  his  weary  feet, 
And  gazed  around  on  Moslem  luxury. 
Till  quickly  wearied  with  that  spacious  seat 

♦4 *- 


** f^ 

OANTO II.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  591 

Of  Wealth  and  Wantonness,  the  choice  retreat 
Of  sated  Grandeur  from  the  city's  noise: 
And  were  it  humbler,  it  in  sooth  were  sweet; 
But  Peace  abhorreth  artificial  joys, 
And  Pleasure,  leagued  with  Pomp,  the  zest  of  both  destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce  are  Albania's  children,  yet  they  lack 
Not  virtues,  were  those  virtues  more  mature. 
Where  is  the  foe  that  ever  saw  their  back? 
Who  can  so  well  the  toil  of  war  endure? 
Their  native  fastnesses  not  more  secure 
Than  they  in  doubtful  time  of  troublous  need: 
Their  wrath  how  deadly!  but  their  friendship  sure, 
When  Gratitude  or  Valor  bids  them  bleed, 
Unshaken  rushing  on  where'er  their  chief  may  lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe  Harold  saw  them  in  their  chieftain's  tower, 
Thronging  to  war  in  spendor  and  success; 
And  after  view'd  them,  when,  within  their  power. 
Himself  a  while  the  victim  of  distress; 
That  saddening  hour  when  bad  men  hotlier  press: 
But  these  did  shelter  him  beneath  their  roof, 
When  less  barbarians  would  have  cheer'd  him  less, 
And  fellow-countrymen  have  stood  aloof — * 
In  aught  that  tries  the  heart  how  few  withstand  the  proof  I 

LXVII. 

It  chanced  that  adverse  winds  once  drove  his  bark 
Full  on  the  coast  of  Suli's  shaggy  shore. 
When  all  around  was  desolate  and  dark; 
To  land  was  perilous,  to  sojourn  more; 
Yet  for  a  while  the  mariners  forbore, 
Dubious  to  trust  where  treachery  might  lurk: 
At  length  they  ventured  forth,  thougli  doubtinj*  sore 
That  those  who  loathe  alike  the  Frank  and  Turk 
Might  once  again  renew  their  ancient  butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain  fear!  the  Suliotes  stretch'd  the  welcome  hand, 
Led  them  o'er  rocks  and  pass'd  the  dangerous  swamp, 
Kinder  than  polish'd  slaves  though  not  so  bland, 
And  piled  the  hearth,  and  wrung  their  garments  damp, 
And  fill'd  the  bowl,  and  trimm'd  the  cheerful  lamp. 
And  spread  their  fare:  though  homely,  all  they  had: 
Such  conduct  bears  Philanthropy's  rare  stamp — 
To  rest  the  weary  and  to  soothe  the  sad, 
Doth  lesson  happier  men,  and  shames  at  least  the  bad. 

LXIX. 

It  came  to  pass,  that  when  he  did  address 
Himself  to  quit  at  length  this  mountain-land, 
Combined  marauders  half-way  barr'd  egress. 
And  wasted  far  and  near  with  glaive  and  brand; 

*  Alluding  to  the  wreckers  of  Cornwall. 

*A » 


592  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,      [canto  ir. 

And  therefore  did  he  take  a  trusty  band 
To  traverse  Acarnania's  forest  wide, 
In  war  well  season'd,  and  with  labors  tann'd, 
Till  he  did  greet  white  Achelous'  tide, 
And  from  his  farther  bank  ^Etolia's  wolds  espied. 

LXX. 

Where  lone  Utraikey  forms  its  circling  cove, 
And  weary  waves  retire  to  gleam  at  rest. 
How  brown  the  foliage  of  the  green  hill's  grove, 
Nodding  at  midnight  o'er  the  calm  bay's  breast, 
As  winds  come  whispering  lightly  from  the  west, 
Kissing,  not  ruffling,  the  blue  deep's  serene: 
Here  Harold  was  received  a  welcome  guest; 
Nor  did  he  pass  unmoved  the  gentle  scene, 
For  many  a  joy  could  he  from  Night's  soft  presence  glean. 

LXXI. 

On  the  smooth  shore  the  night-flres  brightly  blazed, 
The  feast  was  done,  the  red  wine  circling  fast,* 
And  he  that  unawares  had  there  ygazed 
With  gaping  wonderment  had  stared  aghast; 
For  ere  night's  midmost,  stillest  hour  was  past, 
The  native  revels  of  the  troop  began; 
Each  Palikart  his  eabre  from  him  cast, 
And  bounding  hand  in  hand,  man  link'd  to  man, 
Yelling  their  uncouth  dirge,  long  daunced  the  kirtled  clan. 

Lxxir. 
Childe  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood, 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelrie. 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude: 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulgar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent,  glee: 
And,  as  the  flames  along  their  faces  gleara'd, 
Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  free, 
The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd. 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  half  sang,  half  scream'd: — 

1. 
Tambourgi!  Tambourgilt  thy  larum  afar 
Gives  hope  to  the  valiant,  ana  promise  of  war; 
All  the  sons  of  the  mountains  arise  at  the  note, 
Chimariot,  Dlyrian,  and  dark  Suliote!§ 

3. 

Oh!  who  Is  more  brave  than  a  dark  Suliote, 

In  his  snowy  camese  and  his  shaggy  capote? 

To  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  he  leaves  his  wild  flock. 

And  descends  to  the  plain  like  the  stream  from  the  rock. 

*  The  Albanian  Mussulmans  do  not  abstain  from  wine,  and,  indeed, 
very  few  of  the  others. 

t  "  Palikar,"  a  general  name  for  a  soldier  amonpst  the  Greeks,  and 
AlbanesH  who  speak  Romaic:  it  means,  properly,  "a  lad." 

±  Drummer. 

§  These  stanzas  are  partly  taken  from  different  Albanese  songs, 
so  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  them  out  by  the  exposition  of  the  Aibiui- 
ese  in  Romaic  and  Italiam. 


-t 


# ^ 

CANTO  II.]      CKELDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  593 

3. 

Shall  the  sons  of  Chimari,  who  never  forgive 
The  fault  of  a  friend,  bid  an  enemy  live? 
Let  those  guns  so  unerring  such  vengeance  forego? 
What  mark  is  so  fair  as  the  breast  of  a  foe? 

4. 

Macedonia  sends  forth  her  invincible  race; 
For  a  time  they  abandon  the  cave  and  the  chase: 
But  those  scarfs  of  blood-red  shall  be  redder,  before 
The  sabre  is  sheathed  and  the  battle  is  o'er. 

5. 
Then  the  pirates  of  Parga  that  dwell  by  the  waves, 
And  teach  the  pale  Franks  what  it  is  to  be  slaves, 
Shall  leave  on  the  beach  the  long  galley  and  oar, 
And  track  to  his  covert  the  captive  on  shore. 

6. 
I  ask  not  the  pleasures  that  riches  supply. 
My  sabre  shall  win  what  the  feeble  must  buy; 
Shall  win  the  young  bride  with  her  long  flowing  hair. 
And  many  a  maid  from  her  mother  shall  tear. 

7. 
I  love  the  fair  face  of  the  maid  in  her  youth, 
Her  caresses  shall  lull  me,  her  music  shall  soothe; 
Let  her  bring  from  her  chamber  the  many-toned  lyre, 
And  sing  us  a  song  on  the  fall  of  her  sire. 

8. 
Remember  the  moment  when  Previsa  fell,* 
The  shrieks  of  the  conquer'd,  the  conquerors'  yell; 
The  roofs  that  we  fired,  and  the  plunder  we  shared, 
The  wealthy  we  slaughter' d,  the  lovely  we  spared. 

9. 
I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear; 
He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  Vizier: 
Since  the  days  of  our  Prophet  the  Crescent  ne'er  saw 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw. 

10. 
Dark  Muchtar  his  son  to  the  Danube  is  sped. 
Let   the   yellow-hairedt    Giaours   view   his  horse-tail  with 

dread, 
When  his  Delhis  came  dashing  in  blood  o'er  the  banks. 
How  few  shall  escape  from  the  Muscovite  ranks! 

11. 
Selictarlt  unsheathe  then  our  chief's  scimitar: 
Tambourgi!  thy  larum  gives  promise  of  war. 
Ye  mountains,  that  see  us  descend  to  the  shore. 
Shall  view  us  as  victors,  or  view  us  no  more! 

•  It  was  taken  by  storm  from  the  French, 
t  Yellow  is  the  epithet  given  to  the  Russians. 
t  "SeUctar,"  swordbearer. 

■a *♦ 


...$— -^ 

694  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  ii. 

LXXIII. 

Fair  Greece  1  sad  relic  of  departed  worth! 
Immortal,  thouj^h  no  more;  though  fallen,  great: 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter' d  children  forth, 
And  long  accustom'd  bondage  uncreate? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilom  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait — 
Oh!  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume. 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit  of  Freedom!  when  on  Phyle's  brow* 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 
Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land;     . 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain, 
Trembling  beneath  the  scourge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From  birth  till  death  enslaved;  in  word,  in  deed,  unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In  all  save  form  alone,  how  changed!  and  who 
That  marks  the  Are  still  sparkling  in  each  eye, 
Who  but  would  deem  their  bosoms  burn'd  anew 
With  thy  unquenched  beam,  lost  Liberty! 
And  many  dream  withal  the  hour  is  nigh 
That  gives  them  back  their  fathers'  heritage: 
For  foreign  arms  and  aid  they  fondly  sigh. 
Not  solely  dare  encounter  hostile  rage. 
Or  tear  their  name  defiled  from  Slavery's  mournful  page. 

Lxxvr. 
Hereditary  bondsmen!  know  ye  not 
Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought? 
Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?  no! 
True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoilers  low, 
But  not  for  you  will  Freedom's  altars  flame. 
Shades  of  the  Helots!  triumph  o'er  your  foe: 
Greece!  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame. 

Lxxvir. 
The  city  won  for  Allah  from  the  Giaour, 
The  Giaour  from  Othman's  race  again  may  wrest; 
And  the  Serai's  impenetrable  tower 
Receive  the  flery  Frank,  her  former  guest;t 
Or  Wahab's  rebel  brood,  who  dared  divest 
The  Prophet's  tomb  of  all  its  pious  spoil, t 

*  Phyle,  which  commands  a  beautiful  view  of  Athens,  has  still 
considerable  remains.  It  was  seized  by  Tlirasybulus,  pi-evious  to 
the  expulsion  of  the  Thirty. 

t  When  taken  by  the  Latins,  and  retained  for  several  years. 

t  Mecca  and  Medina  were  taken  some  time  ago  by  the  Wahabees, 
a  sect  yearly  increasing. 


4 


IK 


^ ^ 

CANTO  II.]      CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  595 

May  vrind  their  path  of  blood  along  the  West; 
But  ne'er  will  freedom  seek  this  fated  soil, 
But  slave  succeed  to  slave  through  years  of  endless  toil. 


Yet  mark  their  mirth — ere  lenten  day  begin, 
That  penance  which  their  holy  rites  prepare 
To  shrive  from  man  his  weight  of  mortal  sin, 
By  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  prayer; 
But  ere  his  sackcloth  garb  Repentance  wear, 
Some  days  of  joyaunce  are  decreed  to  all, 
To  take  of  pleasaunce  each  his  secret  share, 
In  motley  robe  to  dance  at  masking  ball, 
And  join  the  mimic  train  of  merry  Carnival. 


And  whose  more  rife  with  merriment  than  thine, 
O  Stamboul!  once  the  empress  of  their  reign? 
Though  turbans  now  pollute  Sophia's  shrine, 
And  Greece  her  very  altars  eyes  in  vain: 
(Alas!  her  woes  will  still  pervade  my  strain!) 
Gay  were  her  minstrels  once,  for  free  her  throng. 
All  felt  the  common  joy  they  now  must  feign. 
Nor  oft  I've  seen  such  sight,  nor  heard  such  song. 
As  woo'd  the  eye,  and  thrill'd  the  Bosphorus  along. 


Loud  was  the  lightsome  tumult  on  the  shore. 
Oft  Music  changed,  but  never  ceased  her  tone, 
And  timely  echo'd  back  the  measured  oar. 
And  rippling  waters  made  a  pleasant  moan: 
The  Queen  of  tides  on  high  consenting  shone, 
And  when  a  transient  breeze  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
'Twas,  as  if  darting  from  her  heavenly  throne, 
A  brighter  glance  her  form  reflected  gave. 
Till  sparkling  billows  seem'd  to  light  the  banks  they  lave. 


Glanced  many  a  light  caique  along  the  foam, 
Danced  on  the  siiore  the  daughters  of  the  land, 
Ne  thought  had  man  or  maid  of  rest  or  home. 
While  many  a  languid  eye  and  thrilling  hand 
Exchanged  the  look  few  bosoms  may  withstand, 
Or  gently  prest,  return'd  the  pressure  still: 
Or  Love!  young  Love!  bound  in  thy  rosy  band. 
Let  sage  or  cynic  prattle  as  he  will. 
These  hours,  and  only  these,  redeem  Life's  years  of  ill! 


But,  'midst  the  throng  in  merry  masquerade. 
Lurk  there  no  hearts  that  throb  with  secret  pain. 
Even  through  the  closest  cerement  half  betray'd? 
To  such  the  gentle  murmurs  of  the  main 

•* *♦ 


^ 

696  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [cakto  n. 

Seem  to  re-echo  all  they  mourn  in  vain; 
To  such  the  gladness  of  the  gamesome  crowd 
Is  source  of  wayward  thought  and  stern  disdain: 
How  do  they  loathe  the  laughter  idly  loud, 
And  long  to  change  the  robe  of  revel  for  the  shroud! 

LXXXIII. 

This  must  he  feel,  the  true-bom  son  of  Greece,  * 

If  Greece  one  true-bom  patriot  still  can  boast: 
Not  such  as  prate  of  war,  but  skulk  in  peace. 
The  bondsman's  peace,  who  sighs  for  all  he  lost, 
Yet  with  smooth  smile  his  tyrant  can  accost. 
And  wield  the  slavish  sickle,  not  the  sword: 
Ah!  Greece!  they  love  thee  least  who  owe  thee  most; 
Their  birth,  their  blood,  and  that  sublime  record 
Of  hero  sires,  who  shame  thy  now  degenerate  horde! 

LXXXIV. 

When  riseth  Lacedaemon's  hardihood. 
When  Thebes  Epaminondas  rears  again, 
,     When  Athens'  children  are  with  hearts  endued, 
When  Grecian  mothers  shall  give  birth  to  men. 
Then  mayest  thou  be  restored;  but  not  till  then. 
A  thousand  years  scarce  serve  to  form  a  state; 
An  hour  may  lay  it  in  the  dust:  and  when 
Can  man  its  shatter' d  splendor  renovate. 
Recall  its  virtues  back,  and  vanquish  Time  and  Fate? 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  wo, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men — art  thoul 
Thy  vales  of  evergeen,  thy  hills  of  snow,* 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  thy  service  bow, 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth. 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough: 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth. 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth; 

LXXXVI. 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave;t 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave;t 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half -forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 

♦  On  many  of  the  mountains,  particularly  Liakura,  the  snow 
never  is  entirely  melted,  notwithstanding  the  intense  heat  of  the 
summer;  but  I  nev^*r  saw  it  lie  on  the  plains,  event  n  winter. 

+  Of  Mount  Pentelicua,  from  whence  the  marble  was  dug  that  con- 
structed the  public  edifices  of  Athens.  The  modern  name  is  Mount 
Meiuleli.  An  immense  cave,  formed  by  the  quarries,  still  remains, 
and  will  till  the  end  of  time. 

t  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself  and  Marathon,  there  is 
no' scene  more  mteresting  than  Cape  Co'onna.  To  the  antiquary 
and  artist,  sixteen  columns  are  nn  inexhaustible  source  of  observa- 
tion and  desip:n;  to  the  pliilosopher,  the  supposed  scene  of  some  of 
Plato's  conversations  will  not  be  unwelcome;  and  the  traveller  will 
be  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the  prosjiect  over  "  isles  that  crown  the 
.^gean  deep:"   but,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has  yet. an  ad- 




^h 


4K 


CANTO  II.]     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  597 

Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass, 
Lingering  like  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh  "Alasl" 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild: 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  his  honey'd  wealth  Hymettus  yields; 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain-air; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds, 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare; 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er  we  tread  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould. 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told. 
Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon: 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold, 
Defies  the  power  which  crush'd  thy  temples  gone: 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave,  the  same; 
Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign  lord — 
Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  boundless  fame; 
The  Battlefield,  where  Persia's  victim  horde 
First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas'  sword, 
As  on  the  morn  to  distant  Glory  dear, 
When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word;* 
Which  utter' d,  to  the  hearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  conqueror's  career. 

ditional  interest,  as  the  actual  spot  of  Falconer's  "Shipwreck." 
Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgotten,  in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and 
Campbell: — 

"  Here  in  the  dead  of  night  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep." 
This  temple  of  Minerva  may  be  seen  at  sea  from  a  great  distance. 
In  two  journeys  which  I  made,  and  one  voyage  to  Cape  Colonna, 
the  view  from  either  side,  by  land,  was  more  striking  than  the 
approach  from  the  isles.  In  our  second  land  excursion  we  had  a 
narrow  escape  from  a  party  of  Mainotes,  concealed  in  the  caverns 
beneath.  We  were  told  afterwards  by  one  of  their  prisoners,  subse- 
quently ransomed,  that  they  were  deterred  from  attacking  us  by  the 
appearance  of  my  two  Albanians:  conjecturing  very  sagaciously, 
but  falsely,  that  we  had  a  complete  guard  of  these  Arnaouts  at  hand, 
they  remained  stationary,  and  thus  saved  our  party,  which  was  too 
small  to  have  opposed  any  effectual  resistance.  Colonna  is  no  less 
a  resort  of  painters  than  of  pirates;  there 

"  The  hireUng  artist  plants  his  paltry  desk. 
And  makes  degraded  nature  picturesque." 

(See  Hodgson^s  Lady  Jane  Grey,  &c.) 
But  there  Nature,  with  the  aid  of  Art,  has  done  that  for  herself.    I 
was  fortunate  enough  to  engage  a  very  superior  German  artist;  and 
hope  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  this  and  many  other  Levantine 
scenes,  by  the  arrival  of  his  performances. 
*  "Siste  Viator — heroa  calcasl"  was  the  epitaph  on  the  famous 


ii- 


■IK 


^ »■ 

S98  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  ii. 

xc. 
The  flying  Mede,  his  shaftless  broken  bow; 
The  tiery  Greek,  his  red  pursuing?  spear; 
Mountains  above,  Earth's,  Ocean's  plain  below; 
*  Death  in  the  front,  Destruction  in  the  rear! 

Such  was  the  scene — what  now  remaineth  here? 
What  sacred  trophy  marks  the  hallow'd  ground, 
Recording  Freedom's  smile  and  Asia's  tear? 
The  rifled  urn,  the  violated  mound, 
The  dust  thy  courser's  hoof,  rude  stranger,  spurns  around. 

xci. 
Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast. 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore: 
Boast  of  the  aged!  lesson  of  the  young! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 

XCII. 

The  parted  bosom  clings  to  wonted  home. 
If  aught  that's  kindred  cheer  the  welcome  hearth; 
He  that  is  lonely,  hither  let  him  roam, 
And  gaze  complacent  on  congenial  earth. 
Greece  is  no  lightsome  land  of  social  mirth; 
But  he  whom  Sadness  sootheth  may  abide. 
And  scarce  regret  the  region  of  his  birth, 
When  wandering  slow  by  Delphi's  sacred  side. 
Or  gazing  o'er  the  plains  where  Greek  and  Persian  died. 

XCIII. 
Let  such  approach  this  consecrated  land, 
And  pass  in  peace  along  the  magic  waste: 
But  spare  its  relics — ^let  no  busy  hand 
Deface  the  scenes,  already  how  defacedl 
Not  for  such  purpose  were  these  altars  placed. 
Revere  the  remnants  nations  once  revered: 
So  may  our  country's  name  be  undisgraced. 
So  raayst  thou  prosper  where  thy  youth  was  rear'd, 
By  every  honest  joy  of  love  and  life  endear'dl 

xciv. 
For  thee,  who  thus  in  too  protracted  song 
Hast  soothed  thine  idlesse  with  inglorious  lays, 
Soon  shall  thy  voice  be  lost  amid  the  throng 
Of  louder  minstrels  in  these  later  days: 

Count  Merc! ; — what,  then,  must  be  our  f eeUngs  when  standing  on 
the  tumulus  of  the  two  hundred  (Greeks)  who  fell  on  Marathon? 
The  principal  barrow  has  recently-  been  opened  by  Fauvel:  few  or 
no  relics,  as  vases,  &c.,  were  found  by  the  excavator.  The  plain  of 
Marathon  was  offered  to  me  for  sale  at  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand 

f>iaster8,  about  nine  hundred  pounds!  Alas! — "Expende — quot 
ihras  in  duce  summo — invenies!'^ — was  the  dust  of  Miltiades  worth 
no  more?    It  could  scarcely  havo  fetched  less  if  sold  by  weight. 

*« 


^ — . — -^ 

CANTO  II.]  .CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  •  599 

To  such  resign  the  strife  for  fading  bays — 
111  may  such  contest  now  the  spirit  move 
Which  heeds  nor  keen  reproach  nor  partial  praise; 
Since  cold  each  kinder  heart  that  might  approve, 
And  none  are  left  to  please  when  none  are  left  to  love. 

xcv. 

Thou  too  art  gone,  thou  loved  and  lovely  one! 
Whom  youth  and  youth's  affections  bound  to  me; 
Who  did  for  me  what  none  beside  have  done, 
Nor  shrank  from  one  albeit  unworthy  thee. 
What  is  my  being?  thou  hast  ceased  to  be! 
Nor  staid  to  welcome  here  thy  wanderer  home, 
Who  mourns  o'er  hours  which  we  no  more  shall  see — 
Would  they  had  never  been,  or  were  to  coraef 
Would  he  had  ne'er  return'd  to  find  fresh  cause  to  roam! 


Oh!  ever  loving,  lovely,  and  beloved! 
How  selfish  Sorrow  ponders  on  the  past. 
And  clings  to  thoughts  now  better  far  removed! 
But  Time  shall  tear  thy  shadow  from  me  last. 
All  thou  couldst  have  of  mine,  stem  Death!  thou  hast 
The  parent,  friend,  and  now  the  more  than  friend; 
Ne'er  yet  for  one  thine  arrows  flew  so  fast, 
And  grief  with  grief  continuing  still  to  blend, 
Hath  snatch'd  the  little  joy  that  life  had  yet  to  lend. 


Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd. 
And  follow  all  that  Peace  disdains  to  seek? 
Where  Revel  calls,  and  Laughter,  vainly  loud, 
False  to  the  heart,  distorts  the  hollow  cheek. 
To  leave  the  flagging  spirit  doubly  weak! 
Still  o'er  the  features,  which  perforce  they  cheer, 
To  feign  the  pleasure  or  conceal  the  pique; 
Smiles  form  the  channel  of  a  future  tear. 
Or  raise  the  writhing  lip  with  ill-dissembled  sneer. 

XCVIII. 

What  is  the  worst  of  woes  that  wait  on  age? 
What  stamps  the  wrinkle  deeper  on  the  brow? 
To  view  each  loved  one  blotted  from  life's  page, 
And  be  alone  on  earth,  as  I  am  now. 
Before  the  Chastener  humbly  let  me  bow. 
O'er  hearts  divided  and  o'er  hopes  destroy'd: 
Roll  on,  vain  days!  full  reckless  may  ye  flow. 
Since  Time  hath  reft  whate'er  my  soul  enjoy'd. 
And  with  the  ills  of  Eld  mine  earlier  years  alioy'd. 


^H- 


■IK 


600  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.   iCANXO  iii. 


CANTO  THE  THIRD. 

'Afin  que  cette  application  vous  forcat  de  penser  a  autre  chose;  il 
n'y  a  en  v6rite^cie  reraede  que  celui-la  et  Je  temps." — Lettre  du 
Roi  de  Frusse  d  D'' Alembert,  Sept.  7,  1776. 


Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child! 

Ada!  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart? 

When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 

And  then  we  parted, — not  as  now  we  part, 

But  with  a  hope. — 

Awaking  with  a  start, 

The  waters  heave  around  me ;  and  on  high 

The  winds  lift  up  their  voices:  I  depart, 

Whither  I  know  not;  but  the  hour  's  gone  by. 
When  Albion's  lessening  shores  could  grieve  or  glad  mine 
eye. 

II. 

Once  more  upon  the  waters!  yet  once  more! 

And  the  waves  bound  beneath  me  as  a  steed 

That  knows  his  rider.     Welcome  to  their  roar! 

Swift  be  their  guidance,  wheresoe'er  it  lead! 

Though  the  strain'd  mast  should  quiver  as  a  reed, 

And  the  rent  canvas  fluttering  strew  the  gale, 

Still  must  I  on;  for  I  am  as  a  weed. 

Flung  from  the  rock,  on  Ocean's  foam,  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,  the  tempest's  breath  prevail. 

III. 
In  my  youth's  summer  I  did  sing  of  One, 
The  wandering  outlaw  of  his  own  dark  mind; 
Again  1  seize  the  theme,  then  but  begun, 
And  bear  it  with  me,  as  the  gushing  wind 
Bears  the  cloud  onwards:  in  "that  Tale  I  find 
The  furrows  of  long  thought,  and  dried-up  tears, 
Which,  ebbing,  leave  a  sterile  track  behind, 
O'er  which  all  heavily  the  journeying  years 
Plod  the  last  sands  of  life, — where  not  a  flower  appears. 

IV. 

Since  my  young  days  of  passion — joy,  or  pain, 
Perchance  my  heart  and  harp  have  lost  a  string. 
And  both  may  jar:  it  may  be,  that  in  vain 
I  would  essay  as  I  have  sung  to  sing. 
Yet,  though  a  dreary  strain,  to  this  I  cling, 
So  tliat  it  wean  me  from  the  weary  dream 
Of  sellish  grief  or  gladness— so  it  fling 
Forgetfulness  around  me— it  shall  seem 
To  me,  though  to  none  else,  a  not  ungrateful  theme. 

V. 

He,  who  grown  aged  in  this  world  of  woe. 
In  deeds,  not  years,  pierceing  the  depths  of  life. 
So  that  no  wonder  waits  him;  nor  below 
Can  love,  or  sorrow,  fame,  ambition,  strife. 
Cut  to  his  heart  arain  with  the  keen  knife 


i 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  601 

Of  silent,  sharp  endurance:  he  can  tell 
Why  thought  seeks  refuge  in  lone  caves,  yet  rife 
With  airy  images,  and  shapes  which  dwell 
Still  unimpair'd,  though  old,  in  the  soul's  haunted  cell. 


'Tis  to  create,  and  in  creating  live 
A  being  more  intense,  that  we  endow 
With  form  our  fancy,  gaining  as  we  give 
The  life  we  image,'  even  as  1  do  now. 
What  am  I?    Nothing:   but  not  so  art  thou. 
Soul  of  my  thought!  with  whom  I  traverse  earth, 
Invisible  but  gazing,  as  I  glow 
Mix'd  with  thy  spirit,  blended  with  thy  birth. 
And  feeling  still  with  th^e  in  my  crush'd  feelings'  dearth. 


Yet  must  I  think  less  wildly: — I  have  thought 
Too  long  and  darkly,  till  my  brain  became. 
In  its  own  eddy  boiling  and  o'erwrought, 
A  whirling  gulf  of  fantasy  and  flame: 
And  thus,  untaught  in  youth  my  heart  to  tame, 
My  springs  of  life  Avere  poison 'd.     'Tis  too  late! 
Yet  am  I  changed;  though  still  enough  the  same 
In  strength  to  bear  what  time  can  not  abate. 
And  feed  on  bitter  fruits  without  accusing  Fate. 


Something  too  much  of  this: — but  now  'tis  past, 
And  the  spell  closes  v/ith  its  silent  seal. 
Long-absent  Harold  reappears  at  last; 
He  of  the  breast  which  fain  no  more  would  feel, 
Wrung  with  the  wounds  which  kill  not,  but  ne'er  heal; 
Yet  Time,  who  changes  all,  had  alter'd  him 
In  soul  and  aspect  as  in  age:  years  steal 
Fire  from  the  mind  as  vigor  from  the  limb; 
And  life's  enchanted  cup  but  sparkles  near  the  brim. 


His  had  been  quaff'd  too  quickly,  and  he  found 
The  dregs  were  wormwood;  but  he  flll'd  again. 
And  from  a  purer  fount,  on  holier  ground, 
And  deem'd  its  spring  perpetual;  but  in  vain! 
Still  round  him  clung  invisibly  a  chain 
Which  gaird  for  ever,  fettering  though  unseen. 
And  heavy  though  it  clank'd  not;  worn  vtith  pain, 
Which  pined  although  it  spoke  not,  and  grew  keen, 
Entering  with  every  step  he  took  through  many  a  scene. 

X. 

Secure  in  guarded  coldness,  ho  had  mix'd 
Again  in  fancied  safety  with  his  kind, 
And  deem'd  his  spirit  now  so  firmly  fix'd 
And  sheath'd  -with  an  invulnerable  mind, 


* 


602  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  hi. 

That,  if  no  joy,  no  sorrow  lurk'd  behind; 
And  he.  as  one,  might  'midst  the  many  stand 
Unheeded,  searchiuj?  through  the  crowd  to  find 
Fit  speculation;  such  as  in  strange  land 
He  found  in  wonder-works  of  God  and  Nature's  hand. 


But  who  can  view  the  ripen' d  rose,  nor  seek 
To  wear  it?  who  can  curiously  behold 
The  smoothness  and  the  sheen  of  beauty's  cheek, 
Nor  feel  the  heart  can  never  all  grow  old? 
Who  can  contemplate  Fame  through  clouds  unfold 
The  star  which  rises  o'er  her  steep,  nor  climb? 
Harold,  once  more  within  the  vortex,  roll'd 
On  with  the  giddy  circle,  chasing  Time, 
Yet  with  a  nobler  aim  than  in  his  youth's  fond  prime. 

XII. 

But  soon  he  knew  himself  the  most  unfit 
Of  men  to  herd  with  Man;  with  whom  he  held 
Little  in  common;  untaught  to  submit 
His  thoughts  to  others,  though  his  soul  was  quell'd 
In  youth  by  his  own  thoughts;  still  uncompell'd, 
He  would  not  yield  dominion  of  his  mind 
To  spirits  against  whom  his  own  rebell'd; 
Proud  though  in  desolation;  which  could  find 
A  life  within  itself,  to  breathe  without  mankind. 

XIII. 

Where  rose  the  mountains,  there  to  him  were  friends; 
Where  roll'd  the  ocean,  thereon  was  his  home; 
Where  a  blue  sky^  and  glowing  clime,  extends, 
He  had  the  passion  and  the  power  to  roam; 
The  desert,  forest,  cavern,  breaker's  foam. 
Were  unto  him  companionship;  they  spake 
A  mutual  language,  clearer  than  the  tome 
Of  his  land's  tongue,  which  he  would  oft  forfake 
For  Nature's  pages  glass' d  by  sunbeams  on  the  lake. 


Like  the  Chaldean,  he  could  watch  the  stars. 
Till  he  had  peopled  them  with  beings  bright 
As  their  own  beams;  and  earth,  and  earth-born  jars, 
And  human  frailties,  were  forgotten  quite: 
Could  he  have  kept  his  spirit  to  that  flight 
He  had  been  happy;  but  this  clay  will  sink 
Its  spark  immortal,  envying  it  the  light 
To  which  it  mounts,  as  if  to  break  the  link 
That  keeps  us  from  yon  heaven  which  wooes  us  to  Its  brink. 

XV. 

But  in  Man's  dwellings  he  became  a  thing 
Restless  and  worn,  and  stem  and  wearisome, 
Droop'd  as  a  wild-bom  falcon  with  dipt  wing, 
Tp  whom  the  boundless  air  alone  were  home: 


■IK 


■IJ- 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Then  came  his  fit  again,  which  to  o'ercome, 
As  eagerly  the  barr'd-up  bird  will  beat 
His  breast  and  beak  against  his  wiry  dome 
Till  the  blood  tinge  his  plumage,  so  the  heat 
Of  his  impeded  soul  would  through  his  bosom  eat. 


Self-exiled  Harold  wanders  forth  again, 
With  naught  of  hope  left,  but  with  less  of  gloom; 
The  very  knowledge  that  he  lived  in  vain. 
That  all  was  over  on  this  side  the  tomb. 
Had  made  Despair  a  smilingness  assume, 
Which,  though  'twere  wild, — as  on  the  plundered  wreck 
When  mariners  would  madly  meet  their  doom 
With  draughts  intemperate  on  the  sinking  deck,— 
Did  yet  inspire  a  cheer,  which  he  forbore  to  check. 


Stop!  for  thy  tread  is  on  an  Empire's  dustl 
An  Earthquake's  spoil  is  sepulchred  below! 
Is  the  spot  mark'd  with  no  colossal  bust? 
Nor  column  trophied  for  triumphal  show? 
None;  but  the  moral's  truth  tells  simpler  so, 
As  the  ground  was  before,  thus  let  it  be; — 
How  that  red  rain  hath  made  the  harvest  grow! 
And  is  this  all  the  world  has  gain'd  by  thee. 
Thou  firs^^^  and  last  of  fields!  king-making  Victory? 


And  Harold  stands  upon  this  place  of  skulls, 
The  grave  of  France,  the  deadly  Waterloo! 
How  in  an  hour  the  power  which  gave  annuls 
Its  gifts,  transferring  fame  as  fleeting  too! 
In  "pride  of  place"*  here  last  the  eagle  flew. 
Then  tore  with  bloody  talon  the  rent  plain, 
Pierced  by  the  shaft  of  banded  nations  through; 
Ambition's  life  and  labors  all  were  vain; 
He  wears  the  shatter'd  links  of  the  world's  broken  chain. 


Fit  retribution!    Gaul  may  champ  the  bit 
And  foam  in  fetters; — but  is  Earth  more  free? 
Did  nations  combat  to  make  One  submit; 
Or  league  to  teach  all  kings  true  sovereignty? 
What!  shall  reviving  thraldom  again  be 
The  patch'd-up  idol  of  enlighten'd  days? 
Shall  we,  who  struck  the  Lion  down,  shall  we 
Pay  the  Wolf  homage?  proffering  lowly  gaze 
And  servile  knees  to  thrones?    No;  prove  before  ye  praise! 

XX. 

If  not,  o'er  one  fallen  despot  boast  no  more! 
In  vain  fair  cheeks  were  furrow 'd  with  hot  tears 

*  "In  pride  of  place"  is  a  term  of  falconry,  and  means  the  high- 
est pitch  of  flight.    See  "  Macbeth, "  &c. 

"  An  eagle  towering  in  his  pride  of  place,"  &e. 


^K 


604  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iit. 

For  Europe's  flowers  long  rooted  up  before 
The  trarapler  of  her  vineyards;  in  vain  years 
Of  death,  depopulation,  bondage,  fears, 
Have  all  been  borne,  and  broken  by  the  accord 
Of  roused-up  millions:  all  that  most  endears 
Glory,  is  when  the  myrtle  wreathes  a  sword 
Such  as  Harmodius  drew  on  Athens'  tyrant  lord.* 

XXI. 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'J  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell;  t 
But  hush  I  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell! 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfln'd; 
No  sleep  till  mom,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet — 
But,  hark!  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  1 
ArmI  arm!  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

XXIII. 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell: 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

XXIV. 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro. 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  nour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  chokmg  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated:  who  would  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise! 

♦  See  the  famous  sonf:  on  Harmodius  and  Arist^giton.  The  best 
English  translation  is  in  "Bland's  Anthology,"  by  Mr.  (now  Lord 
Chief- Justice)  Deuman  :— 

"  With  myrtle  my  sword  will  I  wreathe,"  &c. 

t  On  the  night  previous  to  the  action,  it  is  said  that  a  ball  was 
given  at  Brussels. 


n 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  605 


And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  i)eal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb. 
Or  Avhispering,  with  white  lips — "The  foe!     They  come! 
they  come!" 

XXVI. 

And  wild  and  high  the  "  Cameron's  gathering"  rose, 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes: 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills 
Savage  and  shrill!    But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's  ears!* 

XXVII. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leavcs,t 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unretuming  brave — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay. 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arras, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently-stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent. 
Rider  and  horse — friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent! 

XXIX. 

Their  praise  is  hymn 'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  i)artly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong. 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song; 

♦  Sir  Evan  Cameron,  and  his  descendant  Donald,  the  "gentle 
Lochiel"  of  tlie  "forty-five." 

t  The  wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a  remnant  of  the  forest 
of  Ardennes,  famous  in  Boiardo's  "Orlando."  and  immortal  in 
Shakspeare's  "  As  you  hke  it."  It  is  also  celebrated  in  Tacitus,  as 
being  the  spot  of  successful  defence  by  the  Germans  against  the 
Roman  encroachments.  I  have  ventured  to  adopt  the  name  coa- 
nected  with  nobler  associations  than  those  of  mere  slaughter. 


I 


606  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  hi. 

And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  filgs  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant 
Howard  1 

XXX. 

There  have  been  tears  and  breaking  hearts  for  thee. 
And  mine  were  nothing,  had  I  sucn  to  give; 
But  when  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 
Which  living  waves  where  thou  didst  cease  to  live. 
And  saw  around  me  the  wide  field  revive 
With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  Spring 
Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 
With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 
I  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  those  she  could  not  bring.* 

XXXI. 

I  turn'd  to  thee,  to  thousands,  of  whom  each 
And  one  as  all  a  ghastly  gap  did  make 
In  his  own  kind  and  kindred,  whom  to  teach 
Forgetfulness  were  mercy  for  their  sake; 
The  Archangel's  trump,  not  glory's,  must  awake 
Those  whom  they  thirst  for;  though  the  sound  of  Fame 
May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honor' d,  but  assumes  a  stronger,  bitterer  claim. 

XXXII. 

They  mourn,  but  smile  at  length:  and,  smiling,  mourn: 
The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall; 
The  hull  drives  on,  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn; 
The  roof-tree  sinks,  but  moulders  on  the  hall 
In  massy  hoariness;  the  ruin'd  wall 
Stands  when  its  wind-worn  battlements  are  gone; 
^     The  bars  survive  the  captive  they  enthrall; 

The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on: 

♦  My  pruide  from  M^nt  St.  Jean  over  the  field  seemed  intelligent 
and  accurate.  The  place  where  Major  Howard  fell  was  not  far  from 
two  tall  and  solitary  trees  (there  was  a  third,  cut  down,  or  shivered 
in  the  battle)  which  stand  a  few  yards  from  each  other  at  a  path- 
way's side.  Beneath  these  he  died  and  was  buried.  The  body  has 
since  been  removed  to  England.  A  small  hollow  for  the  present 
marks  where  it  lay,  but  will  probably  soon  be  effaced;  the  plough 
has  been  upon  it,  and  the  grain  is.  After  pointing  out  the  different 
spots  where  Picton  and  other  gallant  men  had  perished,  the  guide 
said,  "Here  Major  Howard  lay:  I  was  near  him  when  wounded." 
I  told  him  my  relationship,  and  he  seemed  then  still  more  anxious 
to  point  out  the  particular  spot  and  circumstances.  Theplvceis 
<me  of  the  most  marked  in  the  field,  from  the  peculiaritv  of  the  two 
trees  above  mentioned.  I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field, 
comparing  it  with  my  recollections  of  similar  scenes.  As  a  plain, 
Waterloo  seems  marked  out  for  the  scene  of  some  great  action, 
though  this  may  be  mere  imagination.  I  have  viewed  with  atten- 
tion those  of  Platea,  Troy.  Mantinea,  Leuetra,  Cha>ronea,  and  Mara- 
thon, and  the  field  around  Mont  St.  Jean  and  Hougonmont  appears 
to  want  little  but  a  better  cause,  and  that  undeflnable  hut  impres 
slve  halo  which  the  lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to 
vie  in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except,  perhaps,  the  last 
mentioned. 


■ti- 


^ — _ 

CANTO  III.]   CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  607 

xxxm. 
Even  as  »  broken  mirror,  which  the  glass 
In  every  fragmelit  muitiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it  breaks; 
And  thus  the  heart  will  do  which  not  forsakes, 
Living  in  shatter'd  guise,  and  still,  and  cold. 
And  bloodless,  with  its  sleepless  sorrow  aches. 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old. 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold. 

XXXIV. 

There  is  a  very  life  in  our  despair, 
Vitality  of  poison, — a  quick  root 
Which  feeds  these  deadly  branches;  for  it  were 
As  nothing  did  we  die;  but  life  will  suit 
Itself  to  Sorrow's  most  detested  fruit. 
Like  to  the  apples  on  the  Dead  Sea's  shore,* 
All  ashes  to  the  taste:  Did  man  compute 
Existence  by  enjoyment,  and  count  o'er 
Such  hours  'gainst  years  of  life — say,  would  he  name 
threescore? 

XXXV. 

The  Psalmist  number'd  out  the  years  of  man: 
They  are  enough:  and  if  thy  tale  be  truey 
Thou,  who  didst  grudge  him  even  that  fleeting  span, 
More  than  enough,  thou  fatal  Waterloo! 
Millions  of  tongues  record  thee,  and  anew 
Their  children's  lips  shall  echo  them,  and  say — 
"  Here,  where  the  sword  united  nations  drew, 
Our  countrymen  were  warring  on  that  day!" 
And  this  is  much,  and  all  which  will  not  pass  away. 

XXXVI.     , 

There  sunk  the  greatest,  nor  the  worst  of  men, 
Whose  spirit  antithetically  mixt 
One  moment  of  the  mij2;htiest,  and  again 
On  little  objects  with  like  firmness  fixt, 
Extreme  in  all  things!  hadst  thou  been  betwixt, 
Thy  throne  had  still  been  thine,  or  never  been; 
For  daring  made  thy  rise  as  fall:  thou  seek'st 
Even  now  to  reassume  the  imperial  mien, 
And  shake  again  the  world,  the  Thunderer  of  the  scene! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror  and  captive  of  the  earth  art  thou! 
She  trembles  at  thee  still,  and  thy  wild  name 
Was  ne'er  more  bruited  in  men's  minds  than  now 
That  thou  art  nothing,  save  the  jest  of  Fame, 
Who  woo'd  thee  once,  thy  vassal,  and  became 
The  flatterer  of  thy  fierceness,  till  thou  wert 
A  god  unto  thyself;  nor  less  the  same 
To  the  astounded  kingdoms  all  inert. 
Who  deem'd  thee  for  a  time  whate'er  thou  didst  assert. 

*  The  (fabled)  apples  on  the  brink  of  the  lake  Asphaltes  were  said 
to  be  fair  without,  and,  within,  ashes.    Ftde  Tacitus,  Histor.  lib.  v.  7. 

■* *■ 


^^ 


608  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  hi. 


Oh,  more  or  less  than  man— in  high  or  lo^, 
Battling  with  nations,  Hying  from  the  field; 
Now  making  monarch's  necks  thy  footstool,  now 
More  than  tliy  meanest  soldier  taught  to  yield: 
An  empire  thou  couldst  crush,  command,  rebuild, 
But  govern  not  thy  pettiest  passion,  nor, 
However  deeply  in  men's  spirits  skill'd. 
Look  through  thine  own,  nor  curb  the  lust  of  war. 
Nor  learn  that  tempted  Fate  Avill  leave  the  loftiest  star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet  well  thy  soul  hath  brook 'd  the  turning  tide 
With  that  untaught  innate  philosophy. 
Which,  be  it  wisdom,  coldness,  or  deep  pride, 
Is  gall  and  wormwood  to  an  enemy. 
When  the  whole  host  of  hatred  stood  hard  by. 
To  watch  and  mock  thee  shrinking,  thou  hast  smiled 
With  a  sedate  and  all-enduring  eye; — 
When  Fortune  fled  her  spoil'd  and  favorite  child, 
He  stood  unbow'd  beneath  the  ills  upon  him  piled^ 

XL. 

Sager  than  in  thy  fortunes;  for  In  them 
Ambition  steel'd  thee  on  too  far  to  show 
That  just  habitual  scorn  which  could  contemn 
Men  and  their  thoughts;  'twere  wise  to  feel,  not  so 
To  wear  it  ever  on  tny  lip  and  brow, 
And  spurn  the  instruments  thou  wert  to  use 
Till  they  were  tum'd  unto  thine  overthrow; 
'Tis  but  a  worthless  world  to  win  or  lose; 
So  hath  it  proved  to  thee,  and  all  such  lot  who  choose. 

XLI. 

If,  like  a  tower  updn  a  headlong  rock, 
Thou  hadst  been  made  to  stand  or  fall  alone, 
Such  scorn  of  man  had  help'd  to  brave  the  shock; 
But  men's  thoughts  were  the  steps  which  paved  thy 

throne, 
Tlieir  admiration  thy  best  weapon  shone; 
The  part  of  Philip's  son  was  thine,  not  then 

i Unless  aside  thy  purple  had  been  thrown) 
Jke  stem  Diogenes  to  mock  at  men; 
Fot  sceptred  cynics  earth  were  far  too  wide  a  den.* 

XLTI. 

But  quiet  to  quick  bosoms  Is  a  hell. 

And  thei'c  hath  been  thy  bane;  there  is  a  fire 

*The  preat  error  of  Napoleon,  "if  we  have  writ  our  annals  true," 
was  a  eontinued  obtrusion  on  mankind  of  his  want  of  all  coniinu- 
nity  of  feeling  for  or  with  them;  perhaps  more  offensive  to  liuman 
vanity  than  the  active  cnu'lty  of  more  trcnibliiif?  and  suspicious 
tyranny.  Such  were  his  speeches  to  public  assemblies  as  well  as 
individuals;  and  the  sinprle  expression  which  he  is  said  to  have  used 
on  returning  to  Paris  after  the  Russian  winter  had  destroyed  his 
army,  rubbin^iC  his  hands  over  a  fire,  "This  is  pleasanter  thAn  Mos- 
cow," would  probai)ly  alienate  more  favor  from  his  cause  than  the 
destruction  and  reveraes  which  led  to  the  remark. 


-HI- 


— * 

CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  609 

And  motion  of  the  sonl  which  will  not  dwell 
In  its  own  narrow  being,  but  aspire 
Beyond  the  fitting  medium  of  desire; 
And,  but  once  kindled,  quenchless  evermore, 
Preys  upon  high  adventure,  nor  can  tire 
Of  aught  but  rest;  a  fever  at  the  core. 
Fatal  to  him  who  bears,  to  all  who  ever  bore. 

XLIII. 

This  makes  the  madmen  who  have  made  men  mad 
By  their  contagion!     Conquerors  and  Kings, 
Founders  of  sects  and  systems,  to  whom  add 
Sophists,  Bards,  Statesmen,  all  unquiet  things 
Which  stir  too  strongly  the  soul's  secret  springs, 
And  are  themselves  the  fools  to  those  they  fool; 
Envied,  yet  how  unenviable!  what  stings 
Are  theirs!  One  breast  laid  open  were  a  school 
Which  would  unteach  mankind  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule: 

XLIV. 

Their  breath  is  agitation,  and  their  life 
A  storm  whereon  they  ride,  to  sink  at  last, 
And  yet  so  nursed  and  bigoted  to  strife. 
That  should  their  days,  surviving  perils  past, 
Melt  to  calm  twilight,  they  feel  overcast 
With  sorrow  and  supineness,  and  so  die; 
Even  as  a  flame  unfed,  which  runs  to  waste 
With  its  own  flickering,  or  a  sword  laid  by, 
Which  eats  into  itself,  and  rusts  ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops,  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind, 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow. 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Bound  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head. 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

XLVI. 

Away  with  these!  true  Wisdom's  world  will  be 
Within  its  own  creation,  or  in  thine. 
Maternal  Nature!  for  who  teems  like  thee, 
Thus  on  the  banks  of  thy  majestic  Rhine? 
There  Harold  gazes  on  a  work  divine, 
A  blending  of  all  beauties;  streams  and  dells, 
Fruit,  foliage,  crag,  wood,  cornfield,  mountain,  vine. 
And  chiefless  castles  breathing  stern  farewells 
From  gray  but  leafy  walls,  where  Ruin  greenly  dwells. 

XLVII. 

And  there  they  stand,  as  stands  a  lofty  mind, 
Worn,  but  unstooping  to  the  baser  crowd. 
All  tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying  wind. 
Or  holding  dark  communion  with  the  cloud. 

z*  

^ . -^^ 


« 

810  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRLMAGE.     [canto  hi. 

There  was  a  day  when  they  were  young  and  proud, 
Banners  on  high,  and  battles  passd  below; 
But  they  who  fought  are  in  a  bloody  shroud, 
.   And  those  which  waved  are  shredless  dust  ere  now, 
And  the  bleak  battlements  shall  bear  no  future  blow. 

ILLVIII. 

Beneath  these  battlements,  within  those  walls, 
Power  dwelt  amidst  her  passions;  in  proud  state 
Each  robber  chief  upheld  his  armed  halls, 
Doing  his  evil  will,  nor  less  elate 
Than  mightier  heroes  of  a  longer  date. 
What  want  these  outlaws  conquerors  should  have?* 
But  History's  purchased  page  to  call  them  great? 
A  wider  space,  au  ornamented  grave? 
Their  hopes  were  not  less  warm,  their  souls  were  full  as  brave. 

XLTX. 

In  their  baronial  feuds  and  single  fields, 
What  deeds  of  prowess  unrecorded  died! 
And  Love,  which  lent  a  blazon  to  their  shields, 
With  emblems  well  devised  by  amorous  pride. 
Through  all  the  mail  of  iron  hearts  would  glide; 

•  But  still  their  flame  was  fierceness,  and  drew  on 
Keen  contest  and  destruction  near  allied, 
And  many  a  tower  for  some  fair  mischief  won. 

Saw  the  discolor'd  Rhine  beneath  its  ruin  run. 

L. 

But  Thou,  exulting  and  abounding  river! 
Making  thy  waves  a  blessing  as  they  flow 
Through  banks  whose  beauty  would  endure  for  ever, 
Could  man  but  leave  thy  bright  creation  so, 
Nor  its  fair  promise  from  the  surface  raow 
With  the  sharp  scythe  of  conflict, — then  to  see 
Thy  valley  of  sweet  waters,  were  to  know 
Earth  paved  like  Heaven;  and  to  seem  such  to  me 
Even  now  what  wants  thy  stream?— that  it  should  Lethe  be. 

LI. 

A  thousand  battles  have  assail 'd  thy  banks, 
But  these  and  half  their  fame  have  pass'd  away. 
And  Slaughter  heap'd  on  high  his  weltering  ranks: 
Their  very  graves  are  gone,  and  what  are  they? 
Thy  tide  wash'd  down  the  blood  of  yesterday. 
And  all  was  stainless,  and  on  thy  clear  stream 
Glass'd  with  its  dancing  light  the  sunny  ray; 
But  o'er  the  blacken'd  memoryjs  blighting  dream 
Thy  waves  would  vainly  roll,  all  sweeping  as  they  seem. 

LII. 

Thus  Harold  inly  said,  and  pass'd  along, 

Yet  not  insensibly  to  all  which  here 

Awoke  the  jocund  birds  to  early  song  . 

In  glens  which  might  have  made  even  exile  dear: 

*  "What  wants  that  knave  that  akin;;  should  have*"  was  King 
James's  question  on  meetinp:  Johnny  Armstrong  and  his  followers  in 
full  accoutrements.— See  the  Ballad. 


r 


-ih 


-ih- 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


6il 


Though  on  his  brow  were  graven  lines  austere, 
And  tranquil  sternness  which  had  ta'en  the  place 
Of  feelings  fierier  far  but  less  severe, 
Joy  was  not  always  absent  from  his  face, 
But  o'er  it  in  such  scenes  would  steal  with  transient  trace. 


Nor  was  all  love  shut  from  him  though  his  days 
Of  passion  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust. 
It  is  in  vain  that  we  would  coldly  gaze 
On  such  as  smile  upon  us;  the  heart  must 
Leap  kindly  back  to  kindness,  though  disgust        ^ 
Hath  wean'd  it  from  all  worldlings:  thus  he  felt, 
For  there  was  soft  remembrance,  and  sweet  trust 
In  one  fond  breast,  to  which  his  own  would  melt,  • 
And  in  its  tenderer  hour  on  that  his  bosom  dwelt. 

LIV. 

And  he  had  learn' d  to  love, — I  know  not  why, 
For  this  in  such  as  him  seems  strange  of  mood. — 
The  helpless  looks  of  blooming  infancy, 
Even  in  its  earliest  nurture;  what  subdued, 
To  change  like  this,  a  mind  so  far  imbued 
With  scorn  of  man,  it  little  boots  to  know; 
*        But  thus  it  was;  and  though  in  solitude 

Small  power  the  nipp'd  aftections  have  to  grow, 
In  him  this  glow'd  when  all  beside  had  ceased  to  glow. 

LV. 

And  there  was  one  soft  breast,  as  hath  been  said, 
Which  unto  his  was  bound  by  stronger  ties 
Than  the  church  links  withal:  and,  though  unwed, 
TTiat  love  was  pure,  and  far  above  disguise, 
Had  stood  the  test  of  mortal  enmities 
Still  undivided,  and  cemented  more 
By  peril,  dreaded  most  in  female  eyes; 
But  this  was  firm,  and  from  a  foreign  shore 
Well  to  that  heart  might  his  these  absent  greetings  pour  I 

1. 
The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels* 
Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 
Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 
And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine, 
And  scatter'd  cities  crowning  these. 
Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew' d  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 
With  double  joy,  wert  thou  with  me. 

*  The  castle  of  Drachenfels  stands  on.  the  highest  summit  of  "  The 
Seven  Mountains,"  over  the  Rhine  banks;  it  is  in  ruins,  and  con- 
nected with  some  singular  ti-aditions.  It  is  the  first  in  view  on  the 
road  from  Bonn,  but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  On  this  bank, 
nearly  facing  it,  are  the  remains  of  another,  called  the  Jew's  Castle, 
and  a  large  cross  commemorative  of  the  murder  of  a  chief  by  his 
brother.  The  number  of  castles  and  cities  along  the  course  of  the 
Rhine  on  both  sides  is  very  great,  and  their  situations  remarkably 
beautiful. 


^h 


■if- 


*♦ 

6*8  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iir. 

2. 

And  peasant  ^rls,  with  deep-blue  eyes, 

And  Jiands  which  offer  early  flowers, 

Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise; 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 

Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers. 

And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage-bowers; 

But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Rhine, — 

Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine! 

3. 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me; 
Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  wither'd  be. 
But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such; 
For  I  have  cherish'd  them  as  dear, 
Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye. 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here. 
When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 
And  know'st  them  gather'd  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offer'd  from  my  heart  to  thine! 

4. 
The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows. 
The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 
Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round: 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 
Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 
To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear. 
Could  thy  dear  eyes  in  following  mine 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine! 

LVI. 

By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid, 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid, 
Our  enemy's — but  let  not  that  forbid 
Honor  to  Marceau!  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  gush'd  from  the  rough  soldier's  lid. 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom, 
Falling  for  France,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 

LVII. 

Brief,  brave,  and  glorious  was  his  young  career, — 
His  mourners  were  two  hosts,  his  friends  and  foes, 
And  fitly  may  the  stranger  lingering  here 
Pray  for  his  gallant  spirit's  bright  repose; 
For  he  was  Freedom's  champion,  one  of  those, 
The  few  in  number,  who  had  not  o'erstept 
The  charter  to  chastise  which  she  bestows 


^K 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  013 

On  such  as  wield  her  weapons;  he  had  kept 
The  whiteness  of  his  soul,  and  thus  men  o'er  him  wept.* 

LVIII. 

Here  Ehrenbreitstein,t  with  her  shatter'd  wall 
Black  with  the  miner's  blast,  upon  her  height 
Yet  shows  of  what  she  was,  when  shell  and  ball 
Rebounding  idly  on  her  strength  did  light: 
A  tower  of  victory,  from  whence  the  flight 
Of  baffled  foes  was  watch' d  along  the  plain: 
But  Peace  destroy'd  what  War  could  never  blight. 
And  laid  those  proud  roofs  bare  to  Summer's  rain — 
On  which  the  iron  shower  for  years  had  poui''d  in  vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine!    How  long  delighted 
The  stranger  fain  would  linger  on  his  way! 
Thine  is  a  scene  alike  where  souls  united 
Or  lonely  Contemplation  thus  might  stray; 
And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-condemning  bosoms,  it  were  here, 
Where  Nature,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 
Wild  but  not  rude,  awful  yet  not  austere, 
Is  to  the  mellow  Earth  as  Autumn  to  the  year. 

LX. 

Adieu  to  thee  again!  a  vain  adieu! 
There  can  be  no  farewell  to  scene  like  thine, 
The  mind  is  color' d  by  thy  every  hue; 
And  if  relunctantly  the  eyes  resign 
Their  cherish'd  gaze  upon  thee,  lovely  Rhine! 
'Tis  with  the  thankful  glance  of  parting  praise; 
More  mighty  spots  may  rise— more  glaring  shine. 
But  none  unite  in  one  attaching  maze 
The  brilliant,  fair,  and  soft,— the  glories  of  old  days. 

*  The  monument  of  the  young  and  lamented  General  Marceau 
(killed  by  a  rifle-ball  at  Altenkirchen,  on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth 
year  of  the  French  republic)  still  remains  as  described.  Tiie  in- 
scriptions on  his  monument  are  rather  too  long,  and  not  required-— 
his  name  was  enough.  France  adored,  and  her  enemies  admired; 
both  wept  over  him.  His  funeral  was  attended  by  the  generals  and 
detaclinients  from  both  armies.  In  the  same  grave  General  Hoche 
is  interred,  a  gallant  man  also  in  every  sense  of  the  word;  but 
though  he  distinguished  himself  greatly  in  battle,  he  had  not  the 
good  fortune  to  die  there:  his  death  was  attended  by  suspicions  of 

Eoison.  A  separate  monument  (not  over  his  body,  which  is  buried 
y  Marceau's)  is  raised  for  him  near  Andernach,  opposite  to  which 
one  of  his  most  memorable  exploits  was  performed,  in  throwing  a 
bridge  to  an  island  on  the  Rhine.  The  shape  and  style  are  different 
from  that  of  Marceau,  and  the  inscription  more  simple  and  pleas- 
ing:—'"The  Army  of  the  Sambre  and  Meuse  to  its  Commander-in- 
Chief,  Hoche."  This  is  all,  and  as  it  should  be.  Hoche  was 
esteemed  among  the  first  of  France's  earlier  generals,  before 
Buonaparte  monopolized  her  triumphs.  He  was  the  destined  com- 
mander of  the  invading  army  of  Ireland. 

t  Ehrenbreitstein,  i.  e.,  "the  broad  stone  of  honor,"  one  of  the 
strongest  fortresses  in  Europe,  was  dismantled  and  blown  up  by  the 
French  at  the  truce  of  Leoben.  It  had  been,  and  could  only  be,  re- 
duced by  famine  or  treachery.  It  yielded  to  the  former,  aided  by 
surprise.  After  having  seen  the  fortifications  of  Gibraltar  and 
Malta,  it  did  not  much  strike  by  comparison;  but  the  situation  is 


6U  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,      [canto  hi. 

LXI. 

The  nej^ligently  grand,  the  fruitful  bloom 
Of  coming  ripeness,  the  white  city's  sheen, 
The  rolling  stream,  the  x^recipice's  gloom, 
The  forest's  growth,  and  Gothic  walls  between, 
The  wild  rocks  shaped  as  they  had  turrets  been 
In  mockery  of  man^s  art;  and  these  withal 
A  race  of  faces  happy  as  the  scene, 

Whose  fertile  bounties  here  extend  to  all,  [fall. 

Still  springing  o'er  thy  banks,  though  Empires  near  tliem 

LXII. 

But  these  recede.    Above  me  are  the  Alps, 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snowl 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls. 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man  below. 

LXIII. 

But  ere  these  matchless  heights  I  dare  to  scan, 

There  is  a  spot  should  not  be  pass'd  in  vain, — 
•  Morat!  the  proud,  the  patriot  field!  where  man 

May  gaze  on  ghastly  trophies  of  the  slain, 

Nor  blush  for  those  who  conquer'd  on  that  plain; 

Here  Burgundy  bequeath 'd  his  tom  bless  host, 

A  bony  heap,  through  ages  to  remain, 

Themselves  their  monument;  the  Stygian  coast    [ghost.* 
Unsepulchred  they  roam'd,  and  shriek'd  each  wandering 

LXIV. 

"While  Waterloo  with  Cannae's  carnage  vies, 
Morat  and  Marathon  twin  names  shall  stand; 
They  were  true  Glory's  stainless  victories. 
Won  by  the  unambitious  heart  and  hand 
Of  a  proud,  brotherly,  and  civic  band. 
All  unbought  champions  in  no  princely  cause 
Of  vice-entail'd  Corruption;  they  no  land 
Doom'd  to  bewail  the  blasphemy  of  laws 
Making  kings'  rights  divine,  by  some  Draconic  clause. 

commandinpT.  General  Marceau  besieged  it  in  vn in  for  some  time, 
and  I  slept  in  a  room  where  I  was  shown  a  window  at  which  he  is 
said  to  have  been  standing  observing  the  progress  of  the  siege  by 
moonh'ght  when  a  ball  struck  immediately  below  it. 

*  The  chapel  is  destroyed,  and  the  pyramid  of  bones  dirninished 
to  a  smnll  number  by  the  Bui*guncfian  legion  in  the  service  of 
France,  who  anxiously  effaced  this  record  of  their  ancestors' le«8 
successful  invasions.  A  few  still  remain,  notwithstanding  the  pains 
taken  by  the  Burgundians  for  ages  (all  who  passed  that  way  re- 
moving a  bone  to  their  own  country),  and  the  less  justifiable 
larcenies  of  the  Swiss  postilions,  who  carried  them  off  to  sell  for 
knife-handles- a  purpose  for  which  the  whiteness  imbibed  by  the 
bleaching  of  years  had  rendered  them  in  great  request. 

Of  these  relics  I  ventured  to  bring  away  as  much  as  may  have 
made  a  quarter  of  a  hero,  for  which  the  solo  excuse  is,  that  if  I  had 
not,  the  next  passer  by  might  have  perverted  them  to  worse  uses 
than  the  careful  preservation  which  I  intend  for  them. 


■tK 


Ci^NTO  in.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  615 


By  a  lone  wall  a  lonelier  column  rears 
A  gray  and  grief-worn  aspect  of  old  days; 
'Ti8  the  la^t  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild  bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness;  and  there  it  stands 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays, 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Levell'd  Aventicum,  hath  strew'd  her  subject  lands.* 

LXVI. 

And  there — oh!  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  name! — 
Julia — the  daughter,  the  devoted — gave 
Her  youth  to  Heaven;  her  heart,  beneath  a  claim 
Nearest  to  Heaven's,  broke  o'er  a  father's  grave. 
Justice  is  sworn  'gainst  tears,  and  hers  would  crave 
The  life  she  livedln;  but  the  judge  was  just, 
And  then  she  died  on  him  she  could  not  save. 
Their  tomb  was  simple,  and  without  a  bust, 
And  held  within  their  urn  one  mind,  one  heart,  one  dust.t 

LXVII. 

But  these  are  deeds  which  should  not  pass  away. 
And  names  that  must  not  wither,  though  the  earth 
Forgets  her  empires  with  a  just  decay, 
The  enslavers  and  the  enslaved,  their  death  and  birth; 
The  high,  the  mountain-majesty  of  worth, 
Should  be,  and  shall,  survivor  of  its  woe. 
And  from  its  immortality  look  forth 
In  the  sun's  face,  like  yonder  Alpine  snow,! 
Imperishably  pure  beyond  all  things  below. 

LXVIII. 

Lake  Leman  wooes  me  with  its  crystal  face, 
The  mirrcr  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 
Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue: 
There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through 

♦  Aventicum,  near  Morat,  was  the  Roman  capital  of  Helvetia, 
where  Avenches  now  stands. 

t  Julia  Alpinula,  a  young  Aventian  priestess,  died  soon  after  a 
vain  endeavor  to  save  her  father,  condemned  to  death  as  a  traitor 
by  Aulus  Caeclna.  Her  epitaph  was  discovered  many  years  ago.  It 
is  thus:— "Julia  Alpinula:  Hjp  jaceo.  Infelicis  patris  infelix  proles. 
Dees  Aventiae  Sacerdos.  Exorare  patris  necem  non  potui:  Male 
moriin  fatis  ille  erat,  Vixi  annos  xxiii."  I  know  of  no  humaa 
composition  so  affecting  as  this,  nor  a  history  of  deeper  interest. 
These  are  the  names  and  actions  which  ought  not  to  perish,  and  to 
which  we  turn  with  a  true  and  healthy  tenderness,  from  the  wretched 
and  glittering  detail  of  a  confused  mass  of  conquests  and  battles, 
with  which  the  mind  is  roused  for  a  time  to  a  false  and  feverish 
sympathy,  from  whence  it  recurs  at  length  with  all  the  nausea  con- 
sequent on  such  intoxication. 

t  This  is  written  in  the  eye  of  Mont  Blanc  (June  3d,  1816,)  which 
even  at  this  distance  dazzles  mine.— (July  20th.)  I  this  day  observed 
for  some  time  the  distinct  reflection  of  Mont  Blancand  Mont  Argen- 
tiere  in  the  calm  of  the  lake,  which  I  was  crossing  in  ray  boat.  The 
distance  of  these  mountains  from  their  mirror  is  sixty  miles. 

4U ** 


HF 


616  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  hi. 

With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  behold; 
But  soon  in  me  shall  Loneliness  renew 
Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherish'd  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penn'd  me  in  their  fold.* 

LXIX. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind: 
All  are  not  tit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  one  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  lor.g 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  tne  coil. 
In  wretched  iuterehangc  of  wrong  for  wrong 
'Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are  strong. 

LXX, 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  color  things  to  come  with  hues  of  Night; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness:  on  the  sea, 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite,  • 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  andanchor'd  ne'er  shall  be. 

LXXI. 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,t 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth  make 
A  fair  but  froward  infant  her  own  care. 
Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake! — 
Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 
Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doom'd  to  inflict  or  bear? 

LXXII. 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  me;  and  to  me 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the  bam 
Of  human  cities  torture:  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  ch^in, 

♦The  following  touching  stanza  forms  part  of  the  beautiful  lines 
which  about  this  time  the  poet  addressed  to  his  sister:— 
**  I  did  remind  thee  of  our  own  dear  lake, 
By  the  old  hall  which  may  be  mine  no  more. 
Lenian's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore: 
Sad  havoc  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 
Eie  fhnt  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  liave  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far." 

t  The  color  of  the  Rhone  at  Geneva  is  bine,  to  a  depth  of  tint 
which  I  have  never  seen  equalled  iu  water,  salt  or  fresh,  except  in 
the  Mediterranean  and  Archipelago. 


-i 


■IK 


CANTO  III.]     CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  637 

Class'd  among  creatures,  when  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

LXXIII. 

And  thus  I  am  absorb'd,  and  this  is  life: 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past, 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife. 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  Sorrow  I  was  cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion;  which  I  feel  to  spring. 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous,  as  the  blast 
Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted  wing. 
Spuming  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round  our  being  cling. 

LXXIV. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be  all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded  form. 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall  be 
Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform. 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall  I  not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more  warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each  spot? 
Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the  immortal  lot? 


Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and  skies,  a  part 
Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 
Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my  heart 
With  a  pure  passion?     Should  I  not  contemn 
All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and  stem 
A  tide  of  suffering,  rather  than  forego 
Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly  phlegm 
Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turn'd  below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts  which  dare  not  glow? 


But  this  is  not  my  theme;  and  I  return 
To  that  which  is  immediate,  and  require 
Those  who  find  contemplation  in  the  urn, 
To  look  on  One,  whose  dust  was  once  all  fire, 
A  native  of  the  land  where  I  respire 
The  clear  air  for  a  while — a  passing  guest, 
Where  he  became  a  being, — whose  desire 
Was  to  be  glorious;  'twas  a  foolish  quest, 
The  which  to  gain  and  keep,  he  sacrificed  all  rest. 


■ih 


Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
The  apostle  of  aflOiiction,  he  who  threw 
Enchantment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched;  yet  he  knew 
How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dazzling  as  they  past 
The  eyes,  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and  fast. 


^ -^ 

618  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  in. 

LXXVIII. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence — as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning  ;  with  ethereal  flamo 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted;  for  to  be 
Thus,  and  enamor'd,  were  in  him  the  same. 
But  his  was  not  the  love  of  living  dame, 
Nor  of  the  dead  who  rise  upon  our  dreams, 
But  of  ideal  beauty,  which  became 
In  him  existence,  and  o'erflowing  teems 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper  d  though  it  seems. 

LXXIX. 

This  breathed  itself  to  life  in  Julie,  this 
Invested  her  with  all  that 's  wild  and  sweet; 
This  hallow'd,  too,  the  memorable  kiss* 
Which  every  morn  his  fever' d  lip  would  greet, 
From  hers,  who  but  with  friendship  his  would  meet; 
But  to  that  gentle  touch,  through  brain  and  breast 
Flash'd  the  thrill'd  spirit's  love-devouring  heat: 
In  that  absorbing  sigh  perchance  more  blest 
Than  vulgar  minds  may  be  with  all  they  seek  possest. 

LXXX. 

His  life  was  one  lon^  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banish'd;  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacriflc3  the  kind, 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and  blind, 
But  he  was  frenzied,— wherefore,  who  may  know? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never  find; 
But  he  was  frenzied  by  disease  or  woe 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  reasoning  show. 

LXXXI. 

^For  then  he  was  inspired,  and  from  him  came 
As  from  the  Pythian 's  mystic  cave  of  yore, 
Those  oracles  which  set  the  world  in  flame. 
Nor  ceased  to  burn  till  kingdoms  were  no  more: 
Did  he  not  this  for  France'*?  which  lay  before 
Bow'd  to  the  inborn  tyranny  of  years? 
Broken  and  trembling  to  the  yoke  she  bore, 
Till  by  the  voice  of  him  and  his  compeers, 
Roused  up  to  too  much  wrath,  which  follows  o'ergrown  fears? 

LXXXII, 

They  made  themselves  a  fearful  monumentl 
The  wrecks  of  old  opinions— things  which  grew. 
Breathed  from  the  birth  of  time:  the  veil  they  rent, 
And  what  behind  it  lay,  all  earth  shall  view. 

.  ♦  This  refei-s  to  the  account  in  his  "Confessions"  of  his  passion 
for  the  Comtesse  d'Houdetot  (the  mistress  of  St.  I^mbert,)  and  his 
long  walic  every  morning,  for  the  sake  of  the  single  kiss  which  was 
the  common  salutation  of  French  acquaintance.  Rousseau's  de- 
scription of  his  feelings  on  this  occasion  may  be  considered  as  the 
most  jiassionate,  yet  not  impure,  description  and  expression  of  love 
that  ever  kindled  into  words:  which,  after  all,  must  be  felt,  from 
their  very  force,  to  be  inadequate  to  the  delineation.  A  painting 
can  give  no  sufficient  idea  of  the  oce  in. 


-f 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  619 

But  good  with  ill  thev  also  overthrew^ 
Leaving  but  ruins,  wherewith  to  rebuild 
Upon  the  same  foundation,  and  renew 
Dungeons  and  thrones,  which  the  same  hour  refiU'd, 
As  heretofore,  because  ambition  was  self-wiU'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But  this  will  not  endure,  nor  be  endured! 
Mankind  have  felt  their  strength,  and  made  it  felt. 
They  might  have  used  it  better,  but,  allured 
By  their  n^  vigor,  sternly  have  they  dealt 
On  one  another;  pity  ceased  to  melt 
With  her  once  natural  charities.    But  they, 
Who  in  oppression's  darkness  caved  had  dwelt, 
They  were  not  eagles,  nourish'd  with  the  day; 
What  marvel  then,  at  times,  if  they  mistook  their  prey? 


What  deep  wounds  ever  closed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  disfigures  it;  and  they  who  war 
With  their  own  hopes,  and  have  been  vanquish'd,  bear 
Silence,  but  not  submission:  in  his  lair 
Fix'd  Passion  holds  his  breath,  until  the  hour 
Which  shall  atone  for  years;  none  need  despair: 
It  came,  it  cometh,  and  will  come, — the  power 
To  punish  or  forgive— in  oiie  we  shall  be  slower. 


Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  contrasted  lake. 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction:  once  I  loved 
Tom  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  Sister's  voice  reproved. 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 


It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Sffve  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near. 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more; 

LXXXVII. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whigper  on  the  hill; 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 


■ft '■ * 

620  CIIILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  hi. 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  intuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven. 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state. 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye  »e 
A  beauty,  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar,  [star. 

That  fortune,  fame,  power,   life,  have  named  themselves  a 

LXXXIX. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep: — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:  From  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concentred  in  a  life  intense. 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defence. 

xc 
Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  ka-st  alone  ; 
A  truth,  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:    it  is  a  tone. 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty; — 'twould  disarm 
The  spectre  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

xci. 
Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of  earth-o'crgazing  mountains,*  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Uprear'd  of  human  hands.     Come,  and  compare^ 
Columns  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air. 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer  ! 

*  It  is  to  be  recollected  that  the  most  beautiful  and  impressive 
doctriiif's  of  the  Divine  Founder  of  Christianity  were  delivered,  not 
in  the  Temple,  but  on  the  Mount.  To  waive  tlie  question  cf  devotion, 
and  turn  to  human  eloquence.— the  most  eiTectual  and  splendid 
specimens  wen^  not  pronounced  within  walls.  Demosthenes  ad- 
dress(Ml  tlie  imiilic  jind  popular  assemblies.  Cicero  spoke  in 
the  Fonun.  Tli.it  this  added  to  their  effect  on  the  mind  of  both 
orator  and  hcarcix,  iiiav  be  cotieeived  froTn  the  difference  be- 
tween what  we  nnd  of  {]\i^  emotions  then  and  there  pro- 
duced, and  11io-e  w,.  ourstlv(,"s  experience  in  the  peiiKsal  in 
the  closet.  It  ist>ne  tliint^  to  iea<l  the  "Iliad  "at  SigiEum  and  on 
the  tumuli,  or  by  the  springs,  with  Mount  Ida  above,  and  the  plain, 


^^■ 


CANTO  ITT.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

XCTI. 

Tha  sky  is  changed! — and  sucli  a,  change!  O  night, . 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!    Far  along,     . 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  craajs  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

XCITI. 

And  this  is  in  the  night: — Most  glorious  night  1 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee!* 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
.  As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  bii-th. 


Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene 
That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted. 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed: — 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters, — war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

and  rivers,  and  Archipelago  aroimd  you;  and  another  to  trim  your 
taper  over  it  in  a  snug  lihra.ry— this  I  know.  Were  the  early  and 
rapid  progress  of  what  is  called  Methodism  to  be  attributed  to  any 
cause  beyond  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  its  vehement  faith  and 
doctrines  (the  truth  or  error  of  wliieh  I  presume  neither  to  canvass 
nor  to  question),  I  should  venture  to  ascribe  it  to  the  practice  of 
preaching  in  the  fields,  and  the  unstudied  and  extemporaneous 
effusions  of  its  teachers.  The  Mussulmans,  whose  erroneous  devo- 
tion (at  least  in  the  lower  orders)  is  most  sincere,  and  therefore 
impressive,  are  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prescribed  orisons  and 
praj'ers,  wherever  they  may  be,  at  the  stated  hours — of  course,  fre- 
quently in  the  open  air,  kneeling  upon  a  light  mat  (which  they  carry 
tor  the  purpose  of  a  bed  or  cushion,  as  required).  The  ceremony- 
lasts  some  minutes,  during  which  they  are  totally  absorbed,  and 
only  living  In  their  supplication :  nothing  can  disturb  them.  On  me 
the  simple  and  entire  sincerity  of  these  men,  and  the  spirit  which 
appeared  to  be  within  and  upon  them,  made  a  far  greater  impres- 
sion than  any  general  rite  which  was  ever  performed  in  pla-jes  of 
worship,  of  which  I  have  seen  those  of  almost  every  persuasion 
under  the  sun— including  most  of  our  own  sectaries,  and  the  Greek, 
the  Catholic,  the  Armenian,  the  Lutheran,  the  Jewish,  and  the 
Mohammedan.  Many  of  the  negroes,  of  whom  there  are  numbers 
in  the  Turkish  Empire,  are  idolaters,  and  have  free  exercise  of  their 
belief  and  its  rites.  Some  of  these  I  had  a  distant  view  of  at  Patras ; 
and,  from  what  I  could  make  out  of  them,  they  appeared  to  be  of  a 
truly  pagan  description,  and  not  very  agreeable  to  a  spectator. 

*  The  thunder-storm  to  which  these  lines  refer  occurred  on  the 
13th  of  June,  1816,  at  midnight.  I  have  seen,  among  the  Acroeerau- 
nian  mountains  of  Chimari,  several  more  terrible,  but  none  more 
beautiful. 


*ii- 


r 


-i 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  hi. 

xcv. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around:  of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings,  as  if  he  did  understand 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 


Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings!  ye! 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices,  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  O  tempests!  is  the  goal? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast?    • 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 


Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me, — could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings,  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek. 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe— into  one  word. 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

xcviir. 

The  mom  is  up  again,  the  dewy  mom, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn. 
And  living  as  if  earth  contain'd  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day:  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence:  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman!  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  ponder'd  fittingly. 


Clarens!  sweet  Clarens!  birthplace  of  deep  Level 
Thine  air  is  the  young  breath  of  passionate  thought; 
Thy  trees  take  root  in  love;  the  snows  above 
The  very  Glaciers  have  his  colors  caught. 
And  sunset  into  rose-hues  sees  them  wrought 
By  rays  which  sleep  there  lovingly:  the  rocks. 
The  permanent  crags,  tell  here  or  Love,  who  sought 
In  them  a  refuge  from  the  worldly  shocks, 
Which  stir  and  sting  the  soul  with  hope  that  wooes,  then 
mocks. 

♦* llH- 


+ 


CANTO  III.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Clarensl  by  heavenly  feet  thy  paths  are  trod, — 
Undying  Love's  who  here  ascends  a  throne 
To  whicn  the  steps  are  mountains;  where  the  god 
Is  a  pervading  life  and  light, — so  shown 
Not  on  those  summits  solely,  nor  alone 
In  the  still  cave  and  forest;  o'er  the  flower 
His  eye  is  sparkling,  and  his  breath  hath  blown, 
His  soft  and  summer  breath,  whose  tender  power 
Passes  the  strength  of  storms  in  their  most  desolate  hour. 


All  things  are  here  of  him;  from  the  black  pines, 
Which  are  his  shade  on  high,  and  the  loud  roar 
Of  torrents,  where  he  listeneth,  to  the  vines 
Which  slope  his  green  path  downward  to  the  shore, 
Where  the  bow'd  waters  meet  him,  and  adore, 
Kissing  his  feet  with  murmurs;  and  the  wood, 
The  covert  of  old  trees,  with  trunks^  all  hoar, 
But  light  leaves,  young  as  joy,  stands  where  it  stood, 
Offering  to  him,  and  his,'  a  populous  solitude. 


A  populous  solitude  of  bees  and  birds. 
And  fairy-form'd  and  many-color'd  things. 
Who  worship  him  with  notes  more  sweet  than  words, 
And  innocently  open  their  glad  wings 
Fearless  and  full  of  life:  the  gush  of  springs, 
And  fall  of  lofty  fountains,  and  the  bend 
Of  stirring  branches,  and  the  bud  which  brings 
The  swiftest  thought  of  beauty,  here  extend, 
Mingling,  and  made  by  Love,  unto  one  mighty  end. 


He  who  hath  loved  not,  here  would  learn  that  lore, 
And  make  his  heart  a  spirit;  he  who  knows 
That  tender  mystery,  will  love  the  more. 
For  this  is  Love's  recess,  where  vain  men's  woes. 
And  the  world's  waste,  have  driven  him  far  from  those, 
For  'tis  his  nature  to  advance  or  die: 
He  stands  not  still,  but  or  decays,  or  grows 
Into  a  boundless  blessing,  which  may  vie 
With  the  immortal  lights,  in  its  eternity  1 


-^h 


'Twas  not  for  iSction  chose  Rousseau  this  spot, 
Peopling  it  with  affections;  but  he  found 
It  was  the  scene  which  passion  must  allot 
To  the  mind's  purified  beings;  'twas  the  ground 
Where  early  Love  his  Psyche's  zone  unbound. 
And  hallow'd  it  with  loveliness:  'tis  lone, 
And  wonderful,  and  deep,  and  hath  a  sound, 
And  sense,  and  sight  of  sweetness;  here  the  Rhone 
Hath  spread  himself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a  throne. 


ii* 


— m^ 

mi  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  hi. 


Lausauue!  and  Femey!  ye  have  been  the  abodes    " 
Of  names  wliicli  uuto  you  bequeath'd  a  name;* 
Mortals,  who  souj^ht  and  found,  by  dangerous  roads, 
A  path  to  perpetuity  of  fame: 
They  were  gigantic  minds,  and  their  steep  aim 
Was,  Titan-like,  on  daring  doubts  to  pile 
Thoughts  which  should  call  down  thunder,  and  the  flame 
Of  Heaven,  again  assail'd,  if  Heaven  the  while 
On  man  and  man's  research  could  deign  do  more  than  smile. 


The  one  was  fire  and  fickleness,  a  child. 
Most  mutable  in  wishes,  but  In  mind 
A  wit  as  various,— gay— grave— sage — or  wild — 
Historian,  bard,  philosopher,  combined; 
He  multiplied  himself  among  mankind. 
The  Proteus  of  their  talents:   But  his  own 
Breathed  most  Iq  ridicule, — which,  as  the  wind. 
Blew  where  it  listed,  laying  all  things  prone, — 
Now  to  o'erthrow  a  fool,  and  now  to  shake  a  throne. 


The  other,  deep  and  slow,  exhausting  thought, 
And  hiving  wisdom  with  each  studious  year. 
In  meditation  dwelt,  with  learning  wrought. 
And  shaped  his  weapon  with  an  edge  severe, 
Sapping  a  solemn  creed  with  solemn  sneer; 
The  lord  of  irony, — that  master-spell. 
Which  stung  his  foes  to  wrath,  which  grew  from  fear, 
And  doom'd  him  to  the  zealot's  ready  hell. 
Which  answers  to  all  doubts  so  eloquently  well. 


Yet,  peace  be  with  their  ashes, — for  by  them, 
If  merited,  the  penalty  is  paid; 
It  is  not  ours  to  judge, — far  less  condemn; 
The  hour  must  come  when  such  things  shall  be  made 
Known  unto  all, — or  hope  and  dread  allay'd 
By  slumber,  on  one  pillow, — in  the  dust, 
Which,  thus  much  we  are  sure,  must  lie  decay'd; 
And,  when  it  shall  revive,  as  is  our  trust, 
'Twill  be  to  be  forgiven,  or  suffer  what  is  just. 


But  let  meruit  man's  works,  again  to  read 
His  Maker's,  spread  around  me,  and  suspend 
This  page,  which  from  my  reveries  I  feed, 
Until  it  seems  prolonging  without  end. 
The  clouds  above  me  to  the  white  Alps  tend, 
And  I  must  pierce  them,  and  survey  whate'er 
May  be  permitted,  as  my  steps  I  bend 
To  their  most  great  and  growing  region,  where 
The  earth  to  her  embrace  compels  the  powers  of  air. 


*  Voltaire  and  Gibbon. 


f 


CJLNTOin.]    CHILDE  HAKOLD'S  PILGRDiAGE.  625 

ex. 

Italia!  too,  Italia!  looking  on  thee 
Full  flashes  on  the  soul  the  light  of  ages, 
Since  the  tierce  Carthaginian  almost  won  thee, 
To  the  last  halo  of  the  chiefs  and  sages, 
Who  glorify  thy  consecrated  pages; 
Thou  wert  the  throne  and  grave  of  empires;  still, 
The  fount  at  which  the  panting  mind  assuages 
Her  thirst  for  knowledge,  quaffing  there  her  fill, 
Flows  from  the  eternal  source  of  Rome's  imperial  hill. 

CXI. 

Thus  far  have  I  proceeded  in  a  theme 
Renew'd  with  no  kind  auspices: — to  feel 
We  are  not  what  we  have  been,  and  to  deem 
We  are  not  what  we  should  be, — and  to  steel 
The  heart  against  itself;  and  to  conceal. 
With  a  proud  caution,  love,  or  hate,  or  aught, — 
Passion  or  feeling,  purpose,  grief,  or  zeal, — 
Which  is  the  tyrant  spirit  of  our  thought. 
Is  a  stem  task  of  soul: — No  matter, — it  is  taught. 

CXII. 

And  for  these  words,  thus  woven  into  song, 
It  may  be  that  they  are  a  harmless  wile, — 
The  coloring  of  the  scenes  which  fleet  along, 
Which  I  would  seize,  in  passing,  to  beguile 
My  breast,  or  that  of  others,  for  a  while. 
Fame  is  the  thirst  of  youth, — but  I  am  not 
So  young  as  to  regard  men's  frown  or  smile, 
As  loss  or  guerdon  of  a  glorious  lot* 
I  stood  and  stand  alone, — remember'd  or  forgot. 


I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee, — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles, — ^nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo;  in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  their  thoughts,  and  still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed*  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

cxiv. 
I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me,— 
But  let  us  part  fair  foes;  I  do  believe, 
Though  I  have  found  them  not,  that  there  may  be 
Words  which  are  things, — hopes  which  will  not  deceive, 
And  virtues  which  are  merciful,  nor  weave 
Snares  for  the  failing:  I  would  also  deem 
O'er  others'  griefs  that  some  sincerely  grieve; 
That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem, — 
That  goodness  is  no  name,  and  happiness  no  dream. 

*— "If  it  be  thus. 
For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind. ''^—Macbeth. 

AA 

*-= ■ * 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

cxv. 

My  daughter!  with  thy  name  this  song  begun— 
My  daughter  I  with  thy  name  thus  much  shall  end— 
I  see  thee  not, — I  hear  thee  not, — but  none 
Can  be  so  wrapt  in  thee;  thou  art  the  friend 
To  whom  the  shadows  of  far  years  extend: 
Albeit  my  brow  thou  never  shouldst  behold. 
My  voice  shall  with  thy  future  visions  blend, 
And  reach  into  thy  heart,— when  mine  is  cold, — 
A  token  and  a  tone,  even  from  thy  father's  mould. 


To  aid  thy  mind's  development, — to  watch 
Thy  dawn  of  little  Joys, — to  sit  and  see 
Almost  thy  very  growth, — to  view  thee  catch 
Knowledge  of  objects, — wonders  yet  to  thee! 
To  hold  thee  lightly  on  a  gentle  knee, 
And  print  on  thy  soft  cheek  a  parent's  kiss, — 
This,  it  should  seem,  was  not  reserved  for  me; 
Yet  this  was  in  my  nature: — as  it  is, 
I  know  not  what  is  there,  yet  something  like  to  this. 


Yet,  though  dull  Hate  as  duty  should  be  taught, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;  though  riiy  name 
Should  be  shut  from  thee,  as  a  spell  still  fraught 
"With  desolation, — and  a  broken  claim: 
Though  the  grave  closed  between  us, — 'twere  the  same, 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  love  me;  though  to  drain 
My  blood  from  out  thy  being  were  an  aim. 
And  an  attainment, — all  would  be  in  vain, — 
Still  thou  wouldst  love  me,  still  that  more  than  life  retain. 

CXVIII. 

The  child  of  love, — ^though  bom  in  bitterness. 
And  nurtured  in  convulsion .     Of  thy  sire 
These  were  the  elements, — and  thine  no  less. 
As  yet  such  are  around  thee, — but  thy  fire 
Shall  be  more  temper'd,  and  thy  hope  far  higher. 
Sweet  be  thy  cradled  slumbers!     O'er  the  sea. 
And  from  the  mountains  where  I  now  respire, 
Fain  would  I  waft  such  blessing  upon  thee. 
As,  with  a  sigh,  I  deem  thou  mightst  have  been  to  mel 


CANTO  THE  FOURTH. 

TO  J\3HN  HOBHOUSE,  ESQ.,  A.M.,  F.R.S.,  ETC. 

MvnKARHoBHousE:  After  an  interval  of  eiRht  years  between  the 
composition  of  tlie  first  and  last  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  the  con- 
clusion of  the  poem  is  about  to  be  submitted  to  Dw  i>ubHc.  In  part- 
ing with  so  old  a  friend,  it  is  not  extraordinary  tliat  I  should  recur  to 
one  still  older  and  better, — to  one  who  has  beheld  the  birth  and  deatli 
of  the  other,  and  to  whom  I  am  far  more  indebted  for  the  social  ad- 
vantages of  an  enlightened  friendship,  than— though  not  ungrateful 

^ u. 


-tt 


•ih 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAG:E. 


627 


—I  can,  or  could  be,  to  Childe  Harold,  for  any  public  favor  reflect- 
ed through  the  poem  on  the  poet,— to  one,  whom  I  have  known  long, 
and  accompanied  far,  whom  I  have  found  wakeful  over  my  sickness 
and  kind  in  my  sorrow,  glad  in  my  prosperity  and  firm  in  my  adver- 
sity, true  in  counsel  and  trusty  in  peril, — to.  a  friend  often  tried  and 
never  found  wanting;— to  yourself. 

In  so  doing,  I  recur  from  fiction  to  truth;  and  in  dedicating  to  you, 
in  its  complete  or  at  least  concluded  state,  a  poetical  work  which  is 
the  longest,  the  most  thoughtful  and  comprehensive  of  my  compo- 
sitions, I  wish  to  do  honor  to  myself  by  the  record  of  many  years' 
intimacy  with  a  man  of  learning,  of  talent,  of  steadiness,  and  of 
honor.  It  is  not  for  minds  hke  ours  to  give  or  to  receive  flattery; 
yet  the  praises  of  sincerity  have  ever  been  permitted  to  the  voice  of 
friendship;  and  it  is  not  for  you,  nor  even  for  others,  but  to  relieve 
a  heart  which  has  not  elsewhere,  or  lately,  been  so  much  accustomed 
to  the  encounter  of  good- will  as  to  withstand  the  shock  firmly,  that 
I  thus'attempt  to  commemorate  your  good  qualities,  or  rather  the 
advantages  which  I  have  derived  from  their  exertion.  Even  the  re- 
currence of  the  date  of  this  letter,  the  anniversary  of  the  most  un- 
fortunate day  of  my  past  existence,  but  which  cannot  poison  my 
future  while  I  retain  the  resource  of  your  friendship,  and  of  my  own 
faculties,  will  henceforth  have  a  more  agreeable  recollection  foi 
both,  inasmuch  as  it  will  remind  us  of  this  my  attempt  to  thank  you 
for  an  indefatigable  regard,  such  as  few  men  have  experienced,  and 
no  one  could  experience  without  thinking  better  of  his  species  and 
of  himself. 

It  has  been  our  fortune  to  traverse  together,  at  various  periods, 
the  countries  of  chivalry,  history,  and  fable — Spain,  Greece,  Asia 
Minor,  and  Italy;  and  what  Athens  and  Constantinople  were  to  us 
a  few  years  ago,  Venice  and  Rome  have  been  more  recently.  The 
poem  also,  or  the  pilgrim,  or  both,  have  accompanied  me  from  first 
to  last;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  a  pardonable  vanity  which  induces 
me  to  reflect  with  complacency  on  a  composition  which  in  some  de- 
cree connects  me  with  the  spot  where  it  was  produced,  and  the  ob- 
jects it  would  fain  describe;  and  however  unworthy  it  may  be 
deemed  of  those  most  magical  and  memorable  abodes,  however 
short  it  may  fall  of  our  distant  conceptions  and  immediate  impres- 
sions, yet  as  a  mark  of  respect  for  what  is  venerable,  and  of  feeling 
for  what  is  glorious,  it  has  been  to  me  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the 
production,  and  I  part  with  it  with  a  kind  of  regret,  which  I  hardly 
suspected  that  events  could  have  left  me  for  imagiaary  objects. 

With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto,  there  will  be  found 
less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of  the  preceding,  and  that  little 
slightly,  if  at  all,  separated  from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own 
person.  The  fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a  lino 
which  every  one  seemed  determined  not  to  receive:  like  the  C^hinese 
in  Goldsmith's  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  whom  nobody  would  believe 
to  be  a  Chinese,  it  was  in  vain  that  I  asserted,  and  imagined  that  I 
had  drawn,  a  distinction  between  the  author  and  the  pilgrim;  and 
the  very  anxiety  to  preserve  this  difference,  and  disappointment  at 
finding  it  unavailing,  so  far  crushed  my  efforts  in  the  composition, 
that  I  determined  to  abandon  it  altogether— and  have  done  so.  The 
opinions  which  have  been,  or  may  be,  formed  on  that  subject,  are 
noto  a  matter  of  indifference;  the  work  is  to  depend  on  itself,  and 
not  on  the  writer;  and  the  author,  who  has  no  resources  in  his  own 
mind  beyond  the  reputation,  transient  or  permanent,  which  is  to 
arise  from  his  literary  efforts,  deserves  the  fate  of  authors. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  canto  it  was  my  intention,  either  in 
the  text  or  in  the  notes,  to  have  touched  upon  the  present  state  of 
Italian  literature,  and  perhaps  of  manners.  But  the  text,  within 
the  limits  I  proposed,  I  soon  found  hardly  sufficient  for  the  laV)y- 
rinth  of  external  objects,  and  the  consequent  reflections;  and  for 
the  whole  of  the  notes,  excepting  a  few  of  the  shortest,  I  am  indebt- 
ed to  yourself,  and  these  were  necessarily  limited  to  the  elucidation 
of  the  text. 

It  is  also  a  delicate,  and  no  very  grateful  task,  to  dissert  upon  the 


♦{9- 


ii* 


i 


628  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

literature  and  manners  of  a  nation  so  dissimilar;  and  requires  an  at- 
tention and  impartiality  which  would  induce  us— though  perhaps  no 
inattentive  observers,  nor  ignorant  of  the  language  or  customs  of 
the  people  amongst  whom  we  have  recently  abode— to  distrust,  or 
at  least  defer  our  judgment,  and  more  nari'owly  examine  ou-  infor- 
mation. The  state  of  hterary,  as  well  as  pohtical  party,  appears  to 
run,  or  to  have  run,  so  high,  that  for  a  stranger  to  steer  impartially 
between  them  is  next  to  impossible.  It  may  be  enough,  then,  at 
least  for  my  purpose,  to  qiiote  from  their  own  beautiful  language: 
"Mi pare  che  in  un  paese  tutto  poetico,  che  vanta  la  lingua  la  piu 
nobile  ed  insieme  la  piu  dolce,  tutte  tutte  le  vie  diverse  si  possono 
tentare,  e  che  sinche  la  patria  di  Alfleri  e  di  Monti  non  ha  perduto 
1'  antico  valore,  in  tutte  essa  dovrebbe  essere  la  prima."  Italy  has 
great  names"  still.  Canova,  Monti.  Ugo  Foscolo,  Pindemonti,  Vis- 
conti,  Morelli.  Cicognara,  Albrizzi,  Mezzophanti,  Mai,  Mustoxidi, 
Aglietti,  and  Vacca,  will  secure  to  the  present  generation  an  honor- 
able place  in  most  of  the  departments  of  art,  science,  and  belles-let- 
tres; and  in  some  the  very  highest:  Europe— the  World— has  but 
one  Canova. 

It  has  been  somewhere  said  by  Alfleri,  that  "La  pianta  uomo 
nasce  piu  robusta  in  Italia  che  in  qualunguo  alcra  terra— e  che  gli 
stessi  atroci delitti  che  vi  si  commettoBO  ne  sono  una  prova."  With- 
out subscribing  to  the  latter  part  of  his  proposition — a  dangerous 
doctrine,  the  truth  of  which  may  be  disputed  on  better  grounds, 
namely,  that  the  Italians  are  in  no  respect  more  ferocious  than  their 
neighbors— that  man  nmst  be  wilfully  bhnd,  or  ignorantly  hetjdless, 
who  is  not  struck  vidth  the  extraordinary  capacity  of  this  people,  or, 
if  such  a  word  be  admissible,  their  capabilities,  the  facility  of  their 
acquisitions,  the  rapidity  of  their  conceptions,  the  fire  of  their  gen- 
ius, their  sense  of  beauty,  and,  amidst  all  the  disadvantages  of  re- 
peated revolutions,  the  desolation  of  battles,  and  the  despair  of 
ages,  their  still  unquenched  "longing  after  immortality,'"— tlie  im- 
mortality of  independence.  And  when  we  ourselves,  in  i-idirg round 
the  walls  of  Rome,  heard  the  simple^ lament  of  the  laborers'  chorus, 
"Roma!  Roma!  Roma!  Roma  non  e  piu  come  era  prima,"  it  was 
difficult  not  to  contrast  this  melancholy  dirge  with  the  bacchanal 
roar  of  the  songs  of  exultation  still  yelled  from  the  London  taverns, 
over  the  carnage  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  and  the  betrayal  of  Gtenoa,  of 
Italy,  of  France,  and  of  the  world,  by  men  whose  conduct  you  your- 
self have  exposed  in  a  work  worthy  of  the  better  days  of  our  his- 
tory.   For  me,-# 

"  Non  movero  mai  corda 
Ove  la  turba  di  sue  ciance  assorda." 

What  Italy  has  gained  by  the  late  transfer  of  nations,  it  were  use- 
less for  Englishmen  to  inquire,  till  it  becomes  ascertained  that  Eng- 
land has  acquired  somethm^  more  than  a  permanent  army  and  a 
suspended  Habeas  Corpus;  it  is  enough  for  them  to  look  at  home. 
For  what  they  have  done  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  south,  "  Ver- 
ily they  will  have  their  reward,"  and  at  no  very  distant  period. 

Wishing  you,  my  dear  Ilobhouse,  a  safe  and  agreeable  return  to 
that  country  whose  real  welfare  can  be  dtmrer  to  none  than  to  your- 
self, I  dedicate  to  you  this  poem  in  its  completed  state;  and  repeat 
once  more  how  truly  I  am  ever,  your  obliged  and  affectionate  friend, 

BYRON. 
Venice,  Jan.  2, 1818. 


*4b 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE  629 

CANTO  IV. 


I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand: 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Look'd  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Whe^e  Venice  sate  m  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles! 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers: 
And  such  she  was;— her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East, 
Pour'd  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deem'd  their  dignity  increased. 

ni. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier: 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade— but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear. 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  1 

IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  dogeless  city's  vanish'd  sway; 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch!  though  all  were  o'er. 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 
Essentialljr  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence:  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied. 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 


-H^ 


^^ 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 


Such  is  the  refuge  of  our  youth  and  age, 
The  first  from  Hope,  the  last  from  Vacancy; 
And  this  worn  feeling  peoples  many  a  page, 
And,  may  be,  that  which  grows  beneath  mine  eye: 
Yet  there  are  things  whose  strong  reality 
Outshines  our  fairy-land;  in  shape  and  hues 
More  beautiful  than  our  fantastic  sky, 
And  the  strange  constellations  which  the  Muse 
O'er  her  wild  universe  is  skilful  to  diffuse: 


I  saw  or  dream'd  of  such, — but  let  them  go, — 
They  came  like  truth,  and  disappear'd  like  dreams; 
And  whatsoe'er  they  were — are  now  but  so; 
I  could  replace  them  if  I  would:  stOl  teems 
My  mind  with  many  a  form  which  aptly  seems 
Such  as  I  sought  for,  and  at  moments  found; 
Let  these  too  go — for  waking  Reason  deems 
Such  overweening  fantasies  unsound. 
And  other  voices  speak,  and  other  sights  surround. 

VIII. 

I've  taught  me  other  tongues — and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise; 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make,  nor  hard  to  find 
A  country  with— ay,  or  without  mankind; 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be. 
Not  without  cause;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
The  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps  I  loved  it  well:  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine. 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it— if  we  may 
Unbodied  choose  a  sanctuary.    I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remember'd  in  my  line 
With  my  land's  language:  if  too  fond  and  far 
These  aspirations  in  their  scope  incline,— 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are, 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

X. 

My  name  from  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honor'd  by  the  nations— let  it  be— 
And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head! 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me— 
"  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthier  son  than  he." 
Meantime  I  seek  no  symi)athieR,  nor  need; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  roap'd  arc  of  the  tree 
I  planted,— they  have  torn  me,— and  I  bleed: 
I  should  have  known  what  fruit  would  spring  from  such 
a  seed. 


IK 


« ^ — -^ 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  ^1 


The  spouseless  Adriatic  mouras  her  lord; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renew'd, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhoodi 
jSt.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Slind,  but  in  mockery  of  liis  wither'd  power, 
Over  the  proud  Place  where  an  Emperor  sued. 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequal] 'd  dower. 


The  Suabian  sued,  and  now  the  Austrian  reigns — 
An  Emperor  tramples  where  an  Emperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptred  cities;  nations  melt 
From  Power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have  felt 
The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosen'd  from  the  mountain's  belt; 
Oh  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Daudolo! 
Th'  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering  foe. 


Before  St.  Mark  still  grow  his  steeds  of  brass. 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled  f — Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  sea- weed,  into  whence  she  rose! 
Better  be  whelm'd  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  Destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes. 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 


In  youth  she  was  all  glory,— a  new  Tyre,— 
Her  very  bvword  sprung  from  victory. 
The  "  Planter  of  the  Lion,"  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottpmite; 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Qandia!    Vouc!i  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

XV. 

Statues  of  glass— all  shiverM— the  long  file 
Of  her  dead  Doges  are  declined  to  dust; 
But  where  they  dwelt,  the  vast  and  sumptuous  pile 
Bespeaks  the  pageant  of  their  splendid  tnist; 
Their  sceptre  broken,  and  their  sword  in  rust, 
Have  yielded  to  the  stranger:  empty  halls. 
Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls. 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice'  lovely  walls. 

■* ■ 


^ 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

XVI. 

When  Athens'  armies  fell  at  Syracuse, 
And  fetter'd  thousands  bore  the  yoke  of  war. 
Redemption  rose  up  in  the  Attic  Muse, 
Her  voice  their  only  ransom  from  afar: 
See!  as  they  chant  the  tragic  hymn,  the  car 
Of  the  o'ermaster'd  victor  stops,  the  reins 
Fall  from  his  hands — his  idle  scimitar 
Starts  from  its  belt — ^he  rends  his  captive's  chains. 
And  bids  him  thank  the  bard  for  freedom  and  his  strains. 


Thus,  Venice,  if  no  stronger  claim  were  thine, 
Were  all  thy  proud  heroic  deeds  forgot, 
Thy  choral  memory  of  the  Bard  divine, 
Thy  love  of  Tasso,  should  have  cut  the  knot 
Which  ties  thee  to  thy  tyrants;  and  thy  lot 
Is  shameful  to  the  nations, — most  of  all, 
Albion!  to  thee:  the  Ocean  Queen  should  not 
Abandon  Ocean's  children ;  in  the  fall 
Of  Venice  think  of  thine,  despite  thy  watery  waU. 


I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood — she  to  me 
Was  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  s(^oum,  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Radclifle,  Schiller,  Shakepeare's  art. 
Had  stamp*dl5er  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe, 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 


I  can  repeople  with  the  past— and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought. 
And  meditation  chastcn'd  down,  enough; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought; 
And  of  the  happiest  moments  which  were  wrought 
Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From  thee,  fair  Venice!  have  their  colors  caught: 
There  are  some  feelings  Time  can  not  benumb. 
Nor  Tortvu-e  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and  dumb. 


But  from  their  nature  will  the  tannen  grow 
Loftiest  on  loftiest  and  least  shelf  eFd  rocks. 
Rooted  in  barrenness,  where  nouglit  below 
Of  soil  supports  them  'gainst  the  Alpine  shocks 
Of  eddying  storms;  yet  springs  the  trunk,  and  mocks 
The  howling  tempest,  till  its  height  and  frame 
Are  worthy  of  the  mountains  from  whose  blocks 
Of  bleak,  gray  granite,  into  life  It  cauie. 
And  grew  a  giant  tree;— the  mind  may  grow  the  same. 


■tJ- 


CANTO  iv.J    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Existence  may  be  borne,  and  the  deep  root 
Of  life  and  sufferance  make  its  firm  abode 
In  bare  and  desolated  bosoms:  mute 
The  camel  labors  with  the  heaviest  load, 
And  the  wolf  dies  in  silence,— not  bestow'd 
In  vain  should  such  example  be;  if  they, 
Things  of  ignoble  or  of  savage  mood. 
Endure  and  shrink  not,  we  of  nobler  clay 
May  temper  it  to  bear,— it  is  but  for  a  day. 


All  suffering  doth  destroy,  or  is  destroy'd. 
Even  by  the  sufferer;  and,  in  each  event, 
Ends:— Some,  with  hope  replenish'd  and  rebuoy'd, 
Return  to  whence  they  came — with  like  intent. 
And  weave  their  web  again;  some,  bow'd  and  bent, 
Wax  gray  and  ghastly,  withering  ere  their  time, 
And  perish  with  the  reed  on  which  they  leant; 
Some  seek  devotion,  toil,  war,  good  or  crime. 
According  as  their  souls  were  form'd  to  sink  or  climb. 

XXIII. 

But  ever  and  anon  of  fpciets  subdued 
There  comes  a  token  like  a  scorpion's  sting. 
Scarce  seen,  but  with  fresh  bitterness  imbued; 
And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever:  it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music — summer's  eve — or  spring —  ' 

A  flower— the  wind— the  ocean— which  shall  wound, 
Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound; 

XXIV. 

And  how  and  why  we  know  not,  nor  can  trace 
Home  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind, 
But  feel  the  shock  renew'd,  nor  can  efface 
The  blight  and  blackening  which  it  leaves  behind, 
Which  out  of  things  familiar,  undesign'd. 
When  least  we  deem  of  such,  calls  up  to  view 
The  spectres  whom  no  exorcism  can  bind. 
The  cold— the  changed— perchance  the  dead — anew. 
The  moum'd,  the  loved,  the  lost— too  many!— yet  how  fewl 


But  my  soul  wanders;  I  demand  it  back 
To  meditate  amongst  decay,  and  stand 
A  ruin  amidst  ruins;  there  to  track 
Fallen  states  and  buried  greatness,  o'er  a  land 
Which  was  the  mightiest  in  its  old  command, 
And  is  the  loveliest,  and  must  ever  be 
The  master-mould  of  Nature's  heavenly  hand, 
Wherein  were  cast  the  heroic  and  the  free. 
The  beautiful,  the  brave— the  lords  of  earth  and  sea, 

AA* 


* 

634  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

XXVI. 

The  commonwealth  of  kings,  the  men  of  Rome! 
And  even  since,  and  now,  fair  Italy  1 
Thou  art  the  garden  of  the  world,  the  home 
Of  all  Art  yields,  and  Nature  can  decree; 
Even  in  thy  desert,  what  is  like  to  thee? 
Thy  very  weeds  are  beautiful,  thy  waste 
More  rich  than  other  climes'  fertility; 
Thy  wreck  a  glory,  and  thy  ruin  graced 
With  an  immaculate  charm  which  cannot  be  defaced. 


The  moon  is  up,  and  yet  it  is  not  night — 
Sunset  divides  the  sky  with  her — a  sea 
Of  glory  streams  along  the  Alpine  height 
Of  blue  Friuli's  mountains;  Heaven  is  free 
From  clotids,  but  of  all  colors  seems  to  be 
Melted  to  one  vast  Iris  of  the  West, 
Where  the  Day  joins  the  past  Eternity; 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  meek  Dian's  crest 
Floats  through  the  azure  air— an  island  of  the  blest! 


A  single  star  is  at  her  side,  and  reigns 
With  her  o'er  half  the  lonely  heaven;  but  still 
Yon  sunny  sea  heaves  brightly,  and  remains 
Roll'd  o'er  the  peak  of  the  far  Rhaetian  hill, 
As  Day  and  Night  contending  Were,  iihtll 
Nature  reclaim'd  her  order:— gentlj  flows 
The  deep-dyed  Brenta,  where  their  hues  instil 
The  odorous  purple  of  a  new-bom  rose. 
Which  streams  upon  her  stream,  and  glass'd  within  it  glows. 


Fill'd  with  the  face  of  heaven,  which,  from  afar, 
Oomes  down  upon  the  waters;  all  its  hues, 
From  the  rich  sunset  to  the  rising  star, 
Their  magical  variety  diffuse: 
And  now  they  change;  a  paler  shadow  strews 
Its  mantle  o'er  the  mountains;  parting  day 
Dies  like  the  dolphin^  whom  each  pang  imbues 
With  a  new  color  as  it  gasps  away, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till— 'tis  gone— and  all  Is  gray. 

XXX. 

There  is  a  tomb  in  Armia; — rear'd  in  air, 
Pillar'd  in  their  parc^pnagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover:  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.    He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes: 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gaye  himself  to  fame. 

♦* *■ 


■* — 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  635 

XXXL 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died; 
The  raouutain-village  where  his  latter  days 
AVeut  down  the  vale  of  years;  and  'tis  their  pride — 
An  honest  pride — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pjTamid  form'd  his  monumental  fame. 


And  the  soft  quiet  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 
Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 
For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 
And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decay'd 
In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 
Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 
Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  display'd. 
For  they  can  lure  no  further;  and  the  ray 
Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday. 

XXXIII. 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  floAvcrs, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  where-by, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  langour,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'Tis  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die; 
It  hath  no  flatterers;  vanity  can  give 
No  hollow  aid;  alone — man  with  his  God  must  strive: 


Or,  it  may  be,  with  demons,  who  impair 
The  strength  of  better  thoughts,  and  seek  their  prey 
In  melancholy  bosoms,  such  as  were 
Of  moody  texture  from  their  earliest  day, 
And  loved  to  dwell  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Deeming  themselves  predestined  to  a  doom 
Which  is  not  of  the  pangs  that  pass  away  ; 
Making  the  sun  like  blood,  the  earth  a  tomb, 
The  tomb  a  hell,  and  hell  itself  a  murkier  gloom. 


Ferrara!  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets, 
Whose  symmetrv  was  not  for  solitude. 
There  seems  as  'twere  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impell'd,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn  before. 


T 


ih 


^h 


636  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto 

XXXVI. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 
Hark  to  his  strain!  and  then  survey  his  cell! 
And  see  how  dearly  eam'd  Torquato's  fame, 
And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell. 
The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 
The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and  blend 
With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.    Glory  without  end 
Scatter'd  the  clouds  away — and  on  that  name  attend 


The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time,  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion — in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust,  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Js  shaken  into  nothing;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn — 
Alfonso!  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee!  if  in  another  station  bom, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to  mourn; 


Thou!  form'd  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty: 
He!  with  a  glory  round  his  furrow'd  brow. 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking  lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth — monotony  in  wire! 


Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade!  'twas  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aim'd  with  her  poison'd  arrows;  but  to  miss. 
Oh,  victor  unsurpass'd  iu  modern  song! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions;  but  how  long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on. 
And  not  the  whole  combined  and  countless  throng 
Compose  a  mind  like  thine!  though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scatter'd  rays,  they  would  not  form  a  sun. 


Great  as  thou  art,  yet  parallel 'd  by  those. 
Thy  countrymen,  before  thee  bom  to  shine, 
The  Bards  of  Hell  and  Chivalry:  first  rose 
The  Tuscan  father's  comedy  ^vine; 
Then,  not  unequal  to  the  Florentine, 
The  southern  Scott,  the  minstrel  who  call'd  forth 
A  new  creation  with  his  magic  line, 
And,  like  the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sang  lady e-love  and  War,  romance  and  knightly  worth. 


* ; ^ ■ fr 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  637 

XLI. 

The  lightning  rent  from  Ariosto's  bust 
The  iron  crown  of  laurel's  mimick'd  leaves; 
Nor  was  the  ominous  element  unjust, 
For  the  true  laurel- wreath  which  Glory  weaves 
Is  of  the  tree  no  bolt  of  thunder  cleaves, 
And  the  false  semblance  but  disgraced  his  brow; 
Yet  still,  if  fondly  Superstition  ^ieves, 
Know,  that  the  lightning  sanctites  below 
Whate'er  it  strikes;— yon  head  is  doubly  sacred  nowl 


Italia!  O  Italia!  thou  who  hast 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past. 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plough'd  by  shame, 
And  annals  graved  in  characters  of  flame. 
O  God!  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 
Less  lovely  or  more  powerful,  and  couldst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  press 
To  shed  thy  blood,  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress; 


Then  might  thou  more  appall;  or,  less  desired, 
Be  homely  and  be  peaceful,  undeplored 
For  thy  destructive  charms;  then  still  untired, 
Would  not  be  seen  the  armed  torrents  pour'd 
Down  the  deep  Alps;  nor  would  the  hostile  horde 
Of  many-nation'd  spoilers  from  the  Po 
Quaff  blood  and  water;  nor  the  stranger's  sword 
Be  thy  sad  weapon  of  defence,  and  so, 
Victor  or  vanquish 'd,  thou  the  slave  of  friend  or  foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering  in  youth,  I  traced  the  path  of  him, 
"    The  Roman  friend  of  Rome's  least  mortal  mind, 
The  friend  of  Tully:  as  my  bark  did  skim 
The  bright  blue^ waters  with  a  fanning  wind, 
Came  Megara  before  me,  and  behind 
^gina  lay,  Piraeus  on  the  right, 
And  Corinth  on  the  left;  I  lay  reclined 
Along  the  prow,  and  saw  all  these  unite 
In  ruin,  even  as  he  had  seen  the  desolate  sight; 


For  time  hath  not  rebuilt  them,  but  uprear'd 
Barbaric  dwellings  on  their  shatter'd  site, 
Which  only  make  more  moum'd  and  more  endear'd 
The  few  last  rays  of  their  far-scatter'd  light, 
And  the  crush'd  relics  of  their  vanish'd  might. 
The  Roman  saw  these  tombs  in  his  own  age, 
These  sepulchres  of  cities,  which  excite 
Sad  wonder,  and  his  yet  surviving  page 
The  moral  lesson  bears,  drawn  from  such  pilgrimage. 


^K 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [cakto  iv. 


That  page  is  now  before  me,  and  on  mine 
His  country's  ruin  added  to  the  mass 
Of  perish'd  states  he  mouru'd  in  their  decline, 
And  I  in  desolation:  all  that  was 
Of  then  destruction  is;  and  now,  alas! 
Rome— Rome  imperial,  bows  her  to  the  storm, 
In  the  same  dust  and  blackness,  and  we  pass 
The  skeleton  of  her  Titanic  form. 
Wrecks  of  another  world,  whose  ashes  still  are  warm. 


Yet,  Italy!  through  every  other  land 
Thy  wrongs  should  ring,  and  shall,  from  side  to  side; 
Mother  of  Arts!  as  once  of  Arms;  thy  hand 
Was  then  our  guardian,  and  is  still  our  guide; 
Parent  of  our  Religion!  whom  the  wide 
Nations  have  knelt  to  for  the  keys  of  heaven! 
Europe,  repentant  of  her  parricide. 
Shall  yet  redee'm  thee,  and,  all  backward  driven, 
RoU  the  barbarian  tide,  and  sue  to  be  forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But  Amo  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls. 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Amo  sweeps 
Was  modem  luxury  of  Commerce  bom, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeem'd  to  a  new  mom, 

XLIX. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 

The  air  around  with  beauty;  we  inhale 

The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 

Part  of  its  immortality;  the  veil 

Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn;  within  the  pale 

We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face*  behold 

What  Mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would  fail; 

And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 

Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could  mould: 


We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fulness;  there — ^for  ever  there — 
Chain'd  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  Art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away! — there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise, 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 
"Where  Pedantry  gulls  Folly—  we  have  eyes: 
Blood— pulse— and  breast,  confirm  the  Dardan  Shepherd's 
prize.  -"^ 


*— — ^ ^ 

CANTO  iv.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 


Appear'dst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anehises?  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquish'd  Lord  of  War? 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek!  whi;e  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  bum, 
Shower'd  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from  an  urn  ! 

LII. 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 
Their  full  divinity  inadequate 
That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve. 
The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 
Has  moments  like  their  brightest;  but  the  weight 
Of  earth  recoils  upon  us; — let  it  go! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which  grow 
Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LIII. 

I  leave  to  learned  fingers,  and  wise  hands, 
The  artist  and  his  ape,  to  teach  and  tell 
How  well  his  connoisseurship  understands 
The  graceful  bend,  and  the  voluptuous  swell: 
Let  these  describe  the  undescribable: 
I  would  not  their  vile  breath  should  crisp  the  stream 
Wherein  that  image  shall  for  ever  dwell; 
The  unruffled  mirror  of  the  loveliest  dream 
That  ever  left  the  sky  on  the  deep  soul  to  beam. 


In  ^an|a.jQcace's  holy  precincts  lie 
Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 
Even  in  itself  an  immortality. 
Though  there  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and  this 
The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos: — here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  return'd  to  whence  it  rose. 

LV. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation:— Italy! 
Time,  which  hath  wrong'd  thee  with  ten  thousand  rents 
Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny. 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky. 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin:— thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray; 
Such  is  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 


^^ 


640  CHILDE  HAROLD»S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 


But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit!  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love— where  did  they  lay 
Their  bones,  distin^uish'd  from  our  common  clay 
In  death  as  life?    Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 
And  have  their  country's  marbles  nought  to  say? 
Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  entrust? 


Ungrateful  Florence!  Dante  sleeps  afar. 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war. 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  for  evermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages;  and  the  crown 
Which  Petrarch's  laureate  brow  supremely  wore, 
Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown. 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled — not  thine  own. 


Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er  him  who  form'd  the  Tuscan's  siren  tongue? 
That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The.poetry  of  speech?    No; — even  his  tomb, 
Uptom,  must  bear  the  hyaena  bigot's  wrong. 
No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room. 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for  w?wm  I 


And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Caesar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust. 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  Son  remind  her  more: 
Happier  Ravenna!  on  thy  hoary  shore. 
Fortress  of  falling  empire!  honored  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banish'd  dead,  and  weeps. 


What  is  her  pyramid  of  precious  stones? 
Of  porphyry,  jasper,  agate,  and  all  hues 
Of  "gem  and  marble,  to  encrust  the  bones 
Of  mcrchant^dukes?  the  momentary  dues 
Which,  sparkling  to  the  twilight  stars,  infuse 
Freshness  in  the  green  turf  that  wraps  the  dead, 

.  Whose  names  are  mausoleums  of  the  Muse, 
Are  gently  prest  with  far  more  reverend  tread 

Than  ever  paced  the  slab  which  paves  the  princely  head. 


Mir 


-Ql         -—-^ ^ — ™      '•-'- ' — —- — ■ — ffr^ 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGEIMAGE.  641 

LXI. 

There  be  more  things  to  greet  the  heart  and  eyes 
In  Amo's  dome  of  Art's  most  princely  shrine, 
Where  Sculpture  with  her  rainbow  sister  vies; 
There  be  more  marvels  yet — but  not  for  mine: 
For  I  have  been  accustom'd  to  entwine 
My  thoughts  with  Nature  rather  in  the  fields, 
Than  Art  in  galleries:  though  a  work  divine 
Calls  for  my  spirit's  homage,  yet  it  yields 
Less  than  it  feels,  because  the  weapon  which  it  wields 

Lxir. 

Is  of  another  temper,  and  I  roam 
By  Thrasimene's  lake,  in  the  defiles 
Fatal  to  Roman  rashness,  more  at  home; 
For  there  the  Carthaginian's  warlike  wiles 
Come  back  before  me,  as  his  skill  beguiles 
The  host  between  the  mountains  and  the  shore, 
Where  Courage  falls  in  her  despairing  files. 
And  torrents,  swollen  to  rivers  with  their  gore. 
Reek  through  the  sultry  plain,  with  legions  scatter'd  o'er. 


Like  to  a  forest  fell'd  by  mountain  winds; 
And  such  the  storm  of  iDattle  on  this  day. 
And  such  the  frenzy,  whose  convulsion'blinds 
To  all  save  carnage,  that,  beneath  the  fray, 
An  earthquake  reel'd  unheededly  away! 
None  felt  stem  Nature  rocking  at  his  feet. 
And  yawning  forth  a  grave  for  those  who  lay" 
Upon  their  bucklers  for  a  winding-sheet; 
Such  is  the  absorbing  hate  when  warring  nations  meet! 


The  Earth  to  them  was  as  a  rolling  bark 
Which  bore  them  to  Eternity;  they  saw 
The  Ocean  round,  but  had  no  time  to  mark 
The  motions  of  their  vessel;  Nature's  law. 
In  them  suspended,  reck'd  not  of  the  awe 
Which  reigns  when  mountains  tremble,  and  the  birds 
Plunge  in  the  clouds  for  refuge,  and  withdraw 
From  theu-  down-toppling  nests;  and  bellowing  herds 
Stumble  o'er  heaving  plains,  and  man's  dread  hath  no  words. 

LXV. 

Far  other  scene  is  Thrasimene  now; 
Her  lake  a  sheet  of  silver,  and  her  plain 
Rent  by  no  ravage  save  the  gentle  plough; 
Her  aged  trees  nse  thick  as  once  the  slain 
Lay  where  their  roots  are;  but  a  brook  hath  ta'en — 
A  little  rill  of  scanty  stream  and  bed — 
A  name  of  blood  from  that  day's  sanguine  rain; 
And  Sanguinetto  tells  ye  where  the  dead 
Made  the  earth  wet,  and  tum'd  the  unwilling  waters  red. 


^h 


r 


■ft — 

643  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 


But  thou,  Clitajamis!  in  thy  sweetest  wave 
Of  the  mosflmng  crystal  that  was  e'er 
The  haunt  of  river  nymph,  to  gaze  and  lave 
Her  limbs  where  nothing  hid  them,  thou  dost  rear 
Thy  grassy  banks  whereon  the  milk-white  steer 
Grazes;  the  purest  god  of  gentle  waters! 
And  most  serene  of  aspect,  and  most  clear; 
Surely  that  stream  was  un profaned  by  slaughters, 
A  mirror  and  a  bath  for  Beauty's  youngest  daughters! 


And  on  thy  happy  shore  a  Temple  still, 
Of  small  and  delicate  proportions,  keeps, 
Upon  a  mild  declivity  of  hill, 
Its  memory  of  thee;  beneath  it  sweeps 
Thy  current's  calmness;  oft  from  out  it  leaps 
The  finny  darter  with  the  glittering  scales. 
Who  dwells  and  revels  in  thy  glassy  deeps; 
While,  chance,  some  scatter' d  water-lily  sails 
Down  wncre  the  shallower  wave  still  tells  its  bubbling  tales. 


Pass  not  unblest  the  Genius  of  the  placel 
If  through  the  air  a  zephyr  more  serene 
Win  to  tne  brow,  'tis  his;  and  if  ye  trace 
Along  his  margin  a  more  eloquent  green, 
If  on  the  heart  the  freshness  of  the  scene 
Sprinkle  its  coolness,  and  from  the  dry  dust 
Of  weary  life  a  moment  lave  it  clean 
With  Nature's  baptism — 'tis  to  him  ye  must 
Pay  orisons  for  this  suspension  of  disgust. 


The  roar  of  waters! — from  the  headlong  height 
Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice; 
The  fall  of  waters!  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  tlic  abyss; 
The  hell  of  waters!  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the"  gulf-around,  in  pitiless  horror  set, 


And  mounts  in  spray  the  skies,  and  thence  again 
Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald: — how  profound 
Tha  gulf!  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound. 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which,  downward  worn  and  rent, 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful  vent 


^ 


iK 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  643 

LXXI. 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 

More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 

Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 

Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 

Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 

With  many  windings,  through  the  vale: — Look  backl 

Lo!  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 

As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 

Charming  the  eye  with  dread— a  matchless  cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly  beautiful!  but  on  the  verge. 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge. 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  when  all  around  is  torn     ■, 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn: 
Resembling,  'mid  the  torture  of  the  scene^ 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 


Once  more  upon  the  woody  Apennine, 
The  infant  Alps,  which — had  1  not  before 
Gazed  on  their  mightier  parents,  where  the  pine 
Sits  on  more  shaggy  summits,  and  where  roar 
The  thundering  lauwine— might  be  worshipp'd  more; 
But  I  have  seen  the  soaring  «fungfrau  rear 
Her  never-trodden  snow,  and  seen  the  hoar 
Glaciers  of  bleak  Mont  Blanc  both  far  and  near, 
And  in  Cfeimari  heard  the  thunder-hills  of  fear, 

LXXIV. 

The  ACTOcerauniai^ mountains  of  old  name; 
And  CBTParnasSTiS' seen  the  eagles  fly 
Like  spirits  of  the  spot,  as  'twere  for  fame. 
For  still  they  soar'd  unutterably  high: 
I've  look'd  on  Ida  with  a  Trojan's  eye; 
Athos,  Olympus,  ^tna,  Atlas,  made 
These  hills  seem  things  of  lesser  dignity. 
All,  save  the  lone  Soracte's  height  display'd. 
Not  now  in  snow,  whith  asks  the  lyric  Roman's  aid 


For  our  remembrance,  and  from  out  the  plain 
Heaves  like  a  long-swept  wave  about  to  break, 
And  on  the  curl  hangs  pausing:  not  in  vain 
May  he,  who  will,  his  recollections  rake, 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes;  I  abhorr'd 
Too  much,  to  conquer  for  the  poet's  sake. 
The  drill'd  dull  lesson,  forced  down  word  by  word 
In  my  repugnant  youth,  with  pleasure  to  record 


*it 


644  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

LXXVI, 

Aught  that  recalls  the  daily  drug  which  tum'd 
My  sickening  memory;  and,  though  Time  hath  taught 
My  mind  to  meditate  what  then  it  leam'd, 
Yet  such  the  flx'd  inveteracy  wrought 
By  the  impatience  of  my  early  thought, 
That,  with  the  freshness  wearing  out  before 
My  mind  could  relish  what  it  might  have  sought. 
If  free  to  choose,  I  cannot  now  restore 
Its  health;  but  what  it  then  detested,  still  abhor. 


Then  farewell,  Horace;  whom  I  hated  so, 
Not  for  thy  faults,  but  mine;  it  is  a  curse 
To  understand,  not  feel  thy  lyric  flow, 
To  comprehend,  but  never  love  thy  verse, 
Although  no  deeper  Moralist  rehearse 
Our  little  life,  nor  Bard  prescribe  his  art, 
Nor  livelier  Satirist  the  conscience  pierce. 
Awakening  without  wounding  the  touch'd  heart, 
Yet  fare  thee  well— upon  Soracte's  ridge  we  part. 

LXXVIII. 

O  Rome!  my  country!  city  of  the  soull 
The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee. 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires!  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?    Come  and  see 
The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  Yel 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 


The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  shfe  stands. 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  wither'd  hands. 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scatter'd  long  ago; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 


The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War,  Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  uj)on  the  seven-hill'd  citv's  pride; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride. 
Where  the  car  climb'd  the  capitol;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site:— 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light. 
And  say,  "here  was,  or  Is,"  where  all  is  doubly  night? 


■* « ~- 

OAOTO IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  646 


The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt,  and  -wrap 
All  round  us;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err; 
The  ocean  hath  its  chart,  the  stars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry  "  Eureka!"  it  is  clear — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and  alas! 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs!  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away; 
Alas,  for  TuUy's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page!— but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection;  all  beside— decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome  was  free! 


O  thou,  whose  chariot  roU'd  on  Fortune's  wheel, 
Triumphant  .§yU^ I    Thou,  who  didst  subdue 
Thy  country's  foes  ere  thou  wouldst  pause  to  feel 
The  wrath  of  thy  own  wrongs,  or  reap  the  due 
Of  hoarded  vengeance  till  thine  eagles  flew 
O'er  prostrate  Asia; — thou,  who  with  thy  frown 
Annihilated  senates — Roman,  too, 
With  all  thy  vices,  for  thou  didst  lay  down 
With  an  atoning  smile  a  more  than  earthly  crown, 


The  dictatorial  wreath,— couldst  thou  divine 
To  what  would  one  day  dwindle  that  which  made 
Thee  more  than  mortal?  and  that  so  supine 
By  aught  than  Romans  Rome  should  thus  be  laid? 
She  who  was  named  Eternal,  and  array'd 
Her  warrior's  but  to  conquer — she  Avho  veil'd 
Earth  with  her  haughty  shadow,  and  display'd, 
Until  the  o'er-canopied  horizon  fail'd. 
Her  rushing  wings — Oh!  she  who  was  Almighty  hail'd! 


Sylla  was  first  of  victors;  but  our  own 
The  sagest  of  usurpers,  Cromwell;  he 
Too  swept  off  senates  while  he  hew'd  the  throne 
Down  to  a  block— immortal  rebel!    See 
What  crimes  it  costs  to  be  a  moment  free 
And  famous  through  all  ages!  but  beneath 
His  fate  the  moral  lurks  of  destiny: 
His  day  of  double  victory  and  death 
Beheld  him  win  two  realms,  and,  happier,  yield  his  breath. 


-ih 


r 


i — — ^ 

646  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

LXXXVI. 

The  third  of  the  same  moon  whose  former  course 
Had  all  but  crown'd  him,  on  the  selfsame  day 
Deposed  him  gently  from  his  throne  of  force, 
And  laid  him  with  the  earth's  preceding  clay. 
And  show'd  not  Fortune  thus  how  fame  and  sway, 
And  all  we  deem  delightful,  and  consume 
Our  souls  to  compass  through  each  arduous  way, 
Are  in  her  eyes  less  happy  than  the  tomb? 
Were  they  but  so  in  man's,  how  different  were  his  doom! 


And  thou,  dread  statue!  yet  existent  in 
The  austerest  form  of  naked  majesty, 
Thou  who  beheldcst,  'mid  the  assassins'  din. 
At  thy  bathed  base  the  bloody  Caesar  lie, 
Folding  his  robe  in  dying  dignity, 
An  offering  to  thine  altar  from  the  queen 
Of  gods  and  men,  great  Nemesis!  did  he  die. 
And  thou,  too,  perish,  Pompey?  have  ye  been 
Victors  of  countless  kings,  or  puppets  of  a  scene? 


And  thou,  the  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome! 
She-wolf!  whose  brazen-imaged  dugs  impart 
The  milk  of  conquest  yet  within  the  dome 
Where,  as  a  monument  of  antique  art. 
Thou  standest: — Mother  of  the  mighty  heart, 
Which  the  great  founder  suck'd  from  thy  wild  teat, 
Scorch'd  by  the  Roman  Jove's  ethereal  dart. 
And  thy  limbs  black'd  with  lightning — dost  thou  yet 
Guard  thine  immortal  cubs,  nor  thy  fond  charge  foi^et? 


Thou  dost;— but  all  thy  foster-babes  are  dead — 
The  men  of  iron;  and  the  world  hath  rear'd 
Cities  from  out  their  sepulchres:  men  bled 
In  imitation  of  the  things  they  fear'd. 
And  fought  and  conquer'd,  and  the  same  course  steer'd, 
At  apish  distance;  but  as  yet  none  have, 
Nor  could,  the  same  supremacy  have  near'd. 
Save  one  vain  man,  who  is  not  in  the  grave. 
But,  vanquish'd  by  himself,  to  his  own  slaves  a  slave, 


The  fool  of  false  dominion— and  a  kind 
Of  bastard  Caesar,  following  him  of  old 
With  steps  unequal;  for  the  Roman's  mind 
Was  modell'd  in  a  less  terrestrial  mould, 
With  passions  fiercer,  yet  a  judgment  cold, 
And  an  immortal  Instinct  which  redcem'd 
The  frailties  of  a  heart  so  soft,  yet  bold. 
Alcides  with  the  distaff  now  he  seem'd 
Af  Cleopatra's  feet,— and  now  himself  he  beam'd, 


^h 


I 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  647 

XCI. 

And  came,  and  saw,  and  conquer'd!    But  the  man 
Who  would  have  tamed  his  eagles  down  to  flee, 
Like  a  train'd  falcon,  in  the  Gallic  van, 
Which  he,  in  sooth,  long  led  to  victory. 
With  a  deaf  heart  which  never  seem'd  to  be 
A  listener  to  itself,  was  strangely  framed; 
With  but  one  weakest*  weakness — vanity: 
Coquettish  in  ambition,  still  he  aim'd — 
At  what?    Can  he  avouch — or  answer  what  he  clqjm'd? 

XCII. 

And  would  be  all  or  nothing— nor  could  wait 
For  the  sure  grave  to  level  him;  few  years 
Had  fix'd  him  with  the  Caesars  in  his  fate. 
On  whom  we  tread:  For  t/m  the  conqueror  rears 
The  arch  of  triumph!  and  Tor  this  the  tears 
And  blood  of  earth  flow  on  as  they  have  flow'd, 
An  universal  deluge,  which  appears 
Without  an  ark  for  wretched  man's  abode, 
And  ebbs  but  to  reflow! — Renew  thy  rainbow,  God! 

XCIII. 

What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap? 
Our  senses  narrow,  and  our  reason  frail, 
Life  short,  and  truth  a  gem  which  loves  the  deep, 
And  all  things  weigh'd  in  custom's  falsest  scale; 
Opinion  an  omnipotence, — whose  veil 
Mantles  the  earth  with  darkness,  until  right 
And  wrong  are  accidents,  and  men  grow  pale 
Lest  their  own  judgments  should  become  too  bright. 
And  their  free  thoughts  be  crimes,  and  earth  have  too  much 
Ught. 


And  thus  they  plod  in  sluggish  misery, 
Rotting  from  sire  to  son,  and  age  to  age, 
Proud  of  their  trampled  nature,  and  so  die, 
Bequeathing  their  hereditary  rage 
To  the  new  race  of  inborn  slaves,  who  wage 
War  for  their  chains,  and  rather  than  be  free, 
Bleed  gladiator-like,  and  still  engage 
Within  the  same  arena  where  they  see 
Their  fellows  fall  before,  like  leaves  of  the  same  tree. 

xcv. 

I  speak  not  of  men's  creeds — they  rest  between 
Man  and  his  Maker — but  of  things  allow 'd, 
Averr'd,  and  known, — and  daily,  hourly  seen — 
The  yoke  that  is  upon  us  doubly  bow'd. 
And  the  intent  of  tyranny  avow'd. 
The  edict  of  Earth's  rulers,  who  are  grown 
The  apes  of  him  who  humbled  once  the  proud, 
And  shook  them  from  their  slumbers  on  the  throne; 
Too  glorious,  were  this  all  bis  mighty  arm  had  done. 


T 


» 


ill 

648  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

XCVI. 

Can  tyrants  but  by  tyrants  conquer' d  be, 
And  Freedom  find  no  champion  and  no  child 
Such  as  Columbia  saw  aribe  when  she 
Sprung  forth  a  Pallas,  arm'd  and  undefil'd? 
Or  must  such  minds  bo  nourish'd  in  the  wild, 
Deep  in  the  unpruned  forest,  'midst  the  roar    ■ 
Of  cataracts,  where  nursing  Nature  smiled 
On  infant  Washington?    Has  Earth  no  more 
Such  seeds  within  her  breast,  or  Europe  no  such  shore? 

XCVII. 

But  France  got  drunk  with  blood  to  vomit  crime, 
And  fatal  have  her  Saturnalia  been 
To  Freedom's  cause,  in  every  age  and  clime; 
Because  the  deadly  days  which  we  have  seen, 
And  vile  Ambition,  that  -iiuilt  up  between 
Man  and  his  hopes  an  adamantine  wall, 
And  the  base  pageant  last  upon  the  scene. 
Are  grown  the  pretext  for  the  eternal  thrall 
Which  nips  life's  tree,  and  dooms  man's  worst — ^his 
second  fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet,  Freedom!  yet  thy  banner,  torn,  but  flying. 
Streams  like  the  thunder-storm  against  the  wind; 
Thy  trumpet-voice,  though  broken  now  and  dying. 
The  loudest  still  the  tempest  leaves  behind; 
Thy  tree  hath  lost  its  blossoms,  and  the  rind, 
Chopp'd  by  the  axe,  looks  rough  and  little  worth. 
But  the  sap  lasts — and  still  the  seed  we  find 
Sown  deep,  even  in  the  bosom  of  the  North; 
So  ehall  a  better  spring  less  bitter  fruit  bring  forth. 

xcix. 

There  is  a  stem  round  tower  of  other  days, 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baflBled  strength  delays. 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone. 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown. 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown; — 
What  wag  this  tower  of  stren^h?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid? — A  woman's  grave. 

C. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tomb'd  in  a  palace?    Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  king's — or  more — a  Roman's  bed? 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear? 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir? 
How  lived— how  loved— how  died  she?    Was  she  not 
So  honor' d — and  conspicuously  there. 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot. 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot? 

♦« *» 


cxsTO  TV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  649 


Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others?  such  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue?     Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  har 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs? — for  such  the  affections  are. 

en. 

Perchance  she  died  in  youth:  it  may  be,«bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  iK)nderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cload 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favorites— early  death;  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume 
With  hectic  light  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf-like  red. 

CUT. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age — surviving  all. 
Charms,  kindred,  children— with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome— But,  whither  would  Conjecture  stray? 
Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife:  Behold  his  love  or  pridel 


I  know  not  why— but  standing  thus  by  thee 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known. 
Thou  Tomb!   and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  tlie  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind, 
Forms  from  the  floating  wreck  which  Ruin  leaves  behind; 

ov. 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 
Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear: 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer? 
There  wooes  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what  is  here. 


4 


650  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

cvi.    ^ 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  I  their  harmony- 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all  glistening  gray  and  bright, 
And  sailing  pinions. — Upon  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs?— let  me  not  number  mine. 


Cypress  Mid  ivy,  weed  and  wallflower  grown 
Matted  ot&  mass'd  together,  hillocks  heap'd 
On  what  were  chambers,  arch  crush 'd,  column  strown 
In  fragments,  choked  up  vaults,  and  frescos  steep 'd 
In  subterranean  damps,  where  the  owl  peep'd, 
Deeming  it  midnight:— Temples,  baths,  or  halls? 
Pronounce  who  can;  for  all  that  learning  reap'd 
From  her  research  hath  been,  that  these  are  walls — 
Behold  the  Imperial  Mount!   'tis  thus  the  mighty  falls. 

CVIII. 
There  is  the  moral  of  all  human  tales; 
'Tis  but  the  same  rehearsal  of  the  past, 
First  Freedom,  and  then  Glory- when  that  fails, 
Wealth,  vice,  corruption — barbarism  at  last. 
And  History,  with  all  her  volumes  vast. 
Hath  but  one  page — 'tis»better  written  here, 
Where  gorgeous  Tyranny  hath  thus  amass'd 
All  treasures,  all  delights,  that  eye  or  ear. 
Heart,  soul  could  seek,  tongue  ask — Away  with  words-, 
draw  near, 

cix. 

Admire,  exult — despise — ^laugh,  weep,— for  here 
There  is  such  matter  for  all  feeling: — Man! 
Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear, 
Ages  and  realms  are  crowded  in  this  span. 
This  mountain,  whose  obliterated  plan 
The  pyramid  of  empires  pinnacled. 
Of  Glory's  gewgaws  shining  in  the  van 
Till  the  sun's  rays  with  added  flame  were  flll'd! 
Where  are  its  golden  roofs?  where  those  who  dared  to  build? 


Tully  was  not  so  eloquent  as  thou. 
Thou  nameless  column  with  the  buried  bnsel 
What  are  the  laurels  of  the  Caesar's  brow? 
Crown  me  with  ivy  from  his  dwelling-place. 
Whose  arch  or  pillar  meets  me  in  the  face, 
Titus  or  Trajan's?    No— 'tis  that  of  Time: 
Triumph,  arch,  pillar,  all  he  doth  displace. 
Scoffing;  and  apostolic  statues  climb 
To  crush  the  imperial  urn,  whose  ashes  slept  sublime, 

^ A* 


-* — — ■ — — . — — }^ 

CA2fT0  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  651 


Buried  in  air,  the  deep  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
And  looking  to  the  stars:  they  had  contain'd 
A  spirit  which  with  these  would  find  a  home, 
The  last  of  those  who  o'er  the  whole  earth  reign'd, 
The  Roman  globe,  for  after  none  sustain'd, 
But  yielded  back  his  conquests: — he  was  more 
Than  a  mere  Alexander,  and  unstain'd 
With  household  blood  and  wine,  serenely  wore 
His  sovereign  virtues— still  we  Trajan's  name  adore. 


Where  is  the  rock  of  Triumph,  the  high  pl^e 
Where  Rome  embraced  her  heroes?  where^he  steep 
.Tarpeianl  fittest  goal  of  Treason's  race. 
The  promontory  whence  the  Traitor's  Leap 
Cured  all  ambition?    Did  the  Conquerors  heap 
Their  spoils  here?    Yes;  and  in  yon  field  below, 
A  thousand  yedrs  of  silenced  factions  sleep — 
The  Forum,  where  the  immortal  accents  glow, 
And  still  the  eloquent  air  bieathes— bums  with  Cicero! 


The  field  of  freedom,  faction,  fame,  and  blood: 
Here  a  proud  people's  passions  were  exhaled, 
From  the  first  hour  of  empire  in  the  bud 
To  that  when  further  worlds  to  conquer  fail'd; 
But  long  before  had  Freedom's  face  been  veil'd, 
And  Anarchy  assumed  her  attributes; 
Till  every  lawless  soldier  who  assail'd 
,    Trod  on  the  trembling  Senate's  slavish  mutes, 
'Or  raised  the  venal  voice  of  baser  prostitutes. 

cxrv. 

Then  turn  we  to  our  latest  tribune's  name. 
From  her  ten  thousand  tyrants  turn  to  thee, 
Redeemer  of  dark  centuries  of  shame — 
The  friend  of  Petrarch — hope  of  Italy — 
Rienzi!  last  of  Romans!    While  the  tree 
W  freedom's  wither' d  trunk  puts  forth  a  leaf. 
Even  for  thy  tomb  a  garland  let  it  be — 
The  forum's  champion,  and  the  people's  chief — 
Her  new-bom  Numa  thou — with  reign,  alas!  too  brief. 

cxv. 

^^genal  sweet  creation  of  some  heart 
WWCfi  found  no  mortal  resting-place  so  fair 
As  thine  ideal  breast;  whate'er  thou  art 
Or  wert, — a  young  Aurora  of  the  air, 
The  nympholgpsy  of  some  fond  despair; 
Or,  it  might  be,  a  beauty  of  the  earth, 
Who  found  a  more  than  common  votary  there 
Too  much  adoring;  whatsoe'er  thy  birth. 
Thou  wert  a  beautiful  thought,  and  softly  bodied  forth. 


♦II- 


4 


_^ _« , ^ 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  iv. 

cxvi. 

The  mosses  of  thy  fountain  still  are  sprinkled 
With  thine  Elysian  water-drops;  the  face 
Of  thy  cave-guarded  spring,  with  years  unwrinkled, 
Reflects  the  meek-eyed  genius  of  the  place, 
Whose  green  wild  margin  now  no  more  erase 
Art's  works;  nor  must  the  delicate  waters  sleep, 
Prison'd  in  marble,  bubbling  from  the  base 
Of  the  cleft  statue,  with  a  gentle  leap 
The  rill  runs  o'er,  and  round,  fern,  flowers,  and  ivy  creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically  tangled:  th©  green  hills 
Are  clcJthed  with  early  blossoms,  through  the  grass 
The  quick-eyed  lizard  rustles,  and  the  bills 
Of  summer-birds  sing  welcome  as  ye  pass; 
Flowers  fresh  in  hue,  and  many  in  their  class, 
Implore  the  pausing  step,  and  w  ith  their  dyes 
Dance  in  the  soft  breeze  in  a  fairy  mass; 
The  sweetness  of  the  violet's  deep-blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seems  color' d  by  its  skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  in  this  enchanted  cover, 
Egerial  thy  all  heavenly  bosom  beating 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  thy  mortal  lover; 
The  purple  Midnight  veil'^that  mystic  meeting 
With  her  most  starry  canopy,  and  seating 
Thyself  by  thine  adorer,  what  befell? 
This  cave  was  only  shaped  out  for  the  greeting 
Of  an  enamor'd  Goddess,  and  the  cell 
Haunted  by  holy  Love — the  earliest  oracle! 

cxix. 

And  didst  thou  not,  thy  breast  to  his  replying, 
Blend  a  celestial  with  a  human  heart; 
And  Love,  which  dies  as  it  was  bom,  in  sighing. 
Share  with  immortal  transport?     Could  thine  art 
Make  them  indeed  immortal,  and  impart 
The  purity  of  heaven  to  earthly  joys. 
Expel  the  venom  and  not  blunt  the  dart — 
The  dull  satiety  which  all  destroys— 
And  root  from  out  the  soul  the  deadly  weed  which  cloys? 

cxx. 

Alas!  our  young  affections  run  to  waste. 
Or  water  but  the  desert;  whence  arise 
But  weeds  of  dark  luxuriance,  tares  of  haste. 
Rank  at  the  core,  though  tempting  to  the  eyee, 
Flowers  vJ^hose  wild  odors  breathe  but  agonies. 
And  trees  whose  gums  arc  i)oison;  such  the  plants 
Which  spring  beneath  lier  steps  as  Passion  flies 
O'er  the  world's  wilderness,  and  vainly  pants 
For  some  celestial  fruit  forbidden  to  our  wants. 


^ — — — — *^ 

CJlNTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  653 


O  Lovel  no  habitant  of  earth  thou  art — 
An  unseen  seraph,  we  believe  in  thee, 
A  faith  whose  martyrs  are  the  broken  heart, 
But  never  yet  hath  seen,  nor  e'er  shall  see 
The  naked  eye,  thy  form,  as  it  should  be; 
The  mind  hath  made  thee,  as  it  peopled  heaven, 
Even  with  its  own  desiring  phantasy, 
And  to  a  thought  such  shape  and  image  given, 
As  haunts  the  unqueneh'd  soul — ^parch'd — weai'ied — wrung 
— and  riven. 

CXXII. 

Of  its  own  beauty  is  the  mind  diseased. 
And  fevers  into  false  creation: — where. 
Where  are  the  forms  the  sculptor's  soul  hath  seized? 
In  him  alone.     Can  Nature  show  so  fair? 
Where  are  the  charms  and  virtues  which  we  dare 
Conceive  in  boyhood  and  pursue  as  men, 
The  unreach'd  Paradise  of  our  despair. 
Which  o'er-informs  the  pencil  and  the  pen, 
And  overpowers  the  page  where  it  would  bloom  again? 


Who  loves,  raves — 'tis  youth's  frenzy — but  the  cure 
Is  bitterer  still;  as  charm  by  charm  unwinds 
AVhich  robed  our  idols,  and  we  see  too  sure 
Nor  worth  nor  beauty  dwells  from  out  the  mind's 
Ideal  shape  of  such;  yet  still  it  binds 
The  fatal  spell,  and  still  it  draws  us  on, 
Reaping  the  whirlwind  from  the  oft-sown  winds; 
The  stubborn  heart,  its  alchemy  begun, 
Seems  ever  near  the  prize — wealthiest  when  most  undone. 

cxxiv. 

We  wither  from  our  youth,  we  gasp  away — 
Sick — sick;  unfound  the  boon — unslaked  the  thirst. 
Though  to  the  last,  in  verge  of  our  decay, 
Some  phantom  lures,  such  as  we  sought  at  first — 
But  all  too  late — so  are  we  doubly  curst. 
Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice — 'tis  the  same. 
Each  idle — and  all  ill — and  none  the  worst — 
For  all  are  meteors  with  a  different  name. 
And  Death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanishes  the  flame. 


Few — none — find  what  they  love  or  could  have  loved: 
Though  accident,  blind  contact,  and  the  strong 
Necessity  of  loving,  have  removed 
Antipathies — but  to  recur,  ere  long, 
Envenom'd  with  irrevocable  wrong; 
And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritual  god 
And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod. 
Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust — the  dust  we  all  have  trod. 


4^ 


654 


i 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 


Our  life  is  a  false  nature— 'tis  not  in 
The  harmony  of  things, — this  hard  decree, 
This  uneradieable  taint  of  sin, 
This  boundless  upas,  this  all-blasting  tree, 
Whose  root  is  earth,  whose  leaves  and  branches  be 
The  skies  which  rain  their  plagues  on  men  like  dew — 
Disease,  death,  bondage,  all  the  woes  we  see — 
And  worse,  the  woes  we  see  not — which  throb  through 
The  immedicable  soul,  with  heart-aches  ever  new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet  let  us  ponder  boldly— 'tis  a  base 
Abandonment  of  reason  to  resign 
Our  right  of  thought— our  last  and  only  place 
Of  refuge;  this,  at  least,  shall  still  be  mine: 
Though  from  our  birth  the  faculty  divine 
Is  chain'd  and  tortured — cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined, 
And  bred  in  darkness,  lest  the  truth  should  shine 
Too  brightly  on  the  unprepared  mind. 
The  beam  pours  in,  for  time  and  skill  will  couch  the  blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches  on  arches!  as  it  wtre  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumi)h8  in  one  dome. 
Her  Coliseum  stands;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  'twere  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here,  to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

cxxix. 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of  heaven, 
Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  w^ondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.     There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruin'd  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  dower. 


O  Time!  the  beautifler  of  the  dead, 
Adomer  of  the  ruin,  comforter 
And  only  healer  when  the  heart  hath  bled — 
Time!  the  corrector  where  our  iudgnients  err, 
The  test  of  truth,  love, — sole  piiilopopher, 
For  all  beside  are  sophists,  from  thy  thrift. 
Which  never  loses  though  it  doth  defer — 
Time,  the  avenger!  unto  thee  I  lift 
My  hands,  and  eyes,  and  heart.,  and  crave  of  thee  a  gift: 


^^ -.^ — ^ 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  655 

CXXXI. 

Amidst  this  wreck,  where  thou  hast  made  a  shrine 
And  temple  more  divinely  desolate, 
Among  thy  mightier  offerings  here  are  mine, 
Ruins  of  years— though  few,  yet  full  of  fate: — 
If  thou  hast  ever  seen  me  too  elate. 
Hear  me  not;  but  if  calmly  I  have  borne 
Good,  and  reserved  my  pride  against  the  hate 
Which  shall  not  whelm  me,  let  me  not  have  worn 
This  iron  in  my  soiil  in  vain — ^shall  tJiey  not  mourn? 


And  thou,  who  never  yet  of  human  wrong 
Left  the  unbalanced  scale,  great  Nemesis! 
Here,  where  the  ancient  paid  thee  homage  long — 
Thou,  who  didst  call  the  Furies  from  the  abyss, 
And  round  Orestes  bade  them  howl  and  hiss 
For  that  unnatural  retribution — ^just. 
Had  it  but  been  from  hands  less  near — in  this 
Thy  former  realm,  I  call  thee  from  the  dust! 
Dost  thou  not  hear  my  heart?— A  wake !  thou  shalt,  and  must. 

CXXXIII. 

It  is  not  that  I  may  not  have  incurr'd 
For  my  ancestral  faults  or  mine  the  wound; 
I  bleed  withal,  and  had  it  been  conferr'd 
"With  a  just  weapon,  it  had  flow'd  unbound; 
But  now  ray  blood  shall  not  sink  in  the  ground; 
To  thee  I  do  devote  it — tJwu  shalt  take 
The  vengeance,  which  shall  yet  be  sought  and  found. 
Which  if /have  not  taken  for  the  sake — 
But  let  that  pass— I  sleep,  but  thou  shalt  yet  awake. 


And  if  my  voice  break  forth,  'tis  not  that  now 
I  shrink  from  what  is  suffer'd:  let  him  speak 
Who  hath  beheld  decline  upon  my  brow. 
Or  seen  my  mind's  convulsion  leave  it  weak; 
But  in  this  page  a  record  will  I  seek. 
Not  in  the  air  shall  these  my  words  disperse. 
Though  I  be  ashes;  a  far  hour  shall  wreak 
The  deep  prophetic  fulness  of  this  verse. 
And  pile  on  human  heads  the  mountain  of  my  curse! 


That  curse  shall  be  Forgiveness. — Have  I  not — 
Hear  me,  my  mother  Earth!  behold  it,  Heaven!— 
Have  I  not  had  to  wrestle  with  my  lot? 
Have  I  not  suffer'd  things  to  be  forgiven? 
Have  I  not  had  my  brain  sear'd,  my  heart  riven, 
Hopes  sapp'd,  name  blighted,  Life's  life  lied  away? 
And  only  not  to  desperation  driven 
Because  not  altogether  of  such  clay 
As  rots  into  the  souls  of  those  whom  I  survey. 

♦* *. 


-1 


666  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,    [canto  ly. 


From  mighty  wrongs  to  petty  perfidy 
Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  as  paltry  few. 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh, 
Deal  round  to  happy  fools  its  speechless  obloquy. 


But  I  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  In  vain: 
My  mind  may  lose  its  force,  my  blood  its  fire, 
And  my  fr^Chie  perish  even  in  conquering  pain; 
But  there  is  that  within  me  which  shall  tire 
Torture  and  Time,  and  breathe  when  I  expire; 
Something  unearthly,  which  they  deem  not  of, 
Like  the  remember'd  tone  of  a  mute  lyre, 
Shall  on  their  soften'd  spirits  sink,  and  move 
In  hearts  all  rocky,  now  the  late  remorse  of  love. 


The  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipoteut,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  from  fear: 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 
Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing  but  unseen. 


And  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-rcar'd  applause. 
As  man  was  slaughter'd  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughter'd?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  was  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.     Wherefore  not? 
"What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 


I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie: 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony. 
And  liis  droop'd  head  sinks  gradually'low — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  tluvred  gJish,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him— he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hail'd  the  wretch  who 
won. 


*ih 


f 


— . ^ ^ _^ 

CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  657 

CXLI. 

He  heard  it!  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away; 
He  reck'd  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay. 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
TTiere  was  their  Dacian  mother — he,  their  sire, 
Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rush'd  with  his  blood — Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged?— Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your  ire! 


But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody  steam; 
And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the  ways, 
And  roar'd  or  murmur'd  like  a  mountain-stream 
Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays; 
Here  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 
Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 
My  voice  sounds  much— and  fall  the  stars'  faint  rays 
On  the  arena  void — seats  crush'd — walls  bow'd — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes  strangely  loud. 

CXLIII. 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin !  from  Its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  rear'd; 
Yet  oit  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass. 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have  appear'd. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plunder' d,  or  but  clear'd? 
Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay. 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  near'd; 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day. 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have  reft  away. 

CXLIV. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of  time, 
And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth  not  glare. 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their  dust  ye  tread. 

CXLV. 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall; 
And  when  Rome  falls — the  World."    From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unalter'd  all; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  World— the  same  wide  den — of  thieves,  or  whatyewilL 

BB*  w^ 

Sh 


■* 

658  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.    [caj*to  iv. 


Simple,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime — 
Shrine  of  all  saints,  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus — spared  and  blest  by  time; 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man  plods 
His  way  through  thorns  to  ashes— glorious  dome! 
Shalt  thou  not  last? — Time's  scythe  and  tyrants'  rods 
Shiver  upon  thee — sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety — Pantheon! — pride  of  Romel 

CXLVII. 

Relic  of  nobler  days,  and  noblest  arts! 
Despoil'd  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts — 
To  art  a  model;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honor'd  forms,  whose  busts  around  them  close. 


There  is  a  dungeon,  in  whose  dim  drear  light 
What  do  I  gaze  on?     Nothing:    Look  again! 
Two  forms  are  slowly  shadow'd  on  my  sight — 
Two  insulated  phantoms  of  the  brain: 
It  is  not  so;  I  see  them  full  and  plain — 
An  old  man,  and  a  female  young  and  fair, 
Fresh  as  a  nursing  mother,  in  whose  vein 
The  blood  is  nectar; — but  what  doth  she  there, 
With  her  unmantled  neck,  and  bosom  white  and  bare? 


Full  swells  the  deep  pure  fountain  of  young  life, 
Where  on  the  heart  and  from  the  heart  we  took 
Our  first  and  sweetest  nurture,  when  the  wife, 
Blest  into  mother,  in  the  innocent  look. 
Or  even  the  piping  cry  of  lips  that  brook 
No  pain  and  small  suspense,  a  joy  perceives 
Man  knows  not,  when  from  out  its  cradled  nook 
She  sees  her  little  bud  put  forth  its  leaves — 
What  may  the  fruit  be  yet?— I  know  not— Cain  was  Eve' 


But  here  youth  offers  to  old  age  the  food, 
The  milk  of  his  own  gift:— it  is  her  sire 
To  whom  she  renders  back  the  debt  of  blood 
Born  with  her  birth.     No;  he  shall  not  expire 
While  in  those  warm  and  lovely  veins  the  fire 
Of  health  and  holy  feeling  can  provide 
Great  Nature's  Nile,  whose  deep  stream  rises  higher 
Than  Egypt's  river:— from  that  gentle  side 
Drink,  drink  and  live,  old  man!  heaven's  realm  holds  no 
such  tide. 


+ 


ih 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

CLI. 

The  starry  fable  of  the  milky  way 
Has  not  thy  story's  purity;  it  is 
A  constellation  of  a  sweeter  ray, 
And  sacred  Nature  triumphs  more  in  this 
Reverse  of  her  decree,  than  in  the  abyss 
Where  sparkle  distant  worlds: — Oh,  holiest  nurse! 
No  drop  of  that  clear  stream  its  way  shall  miss 
To  thy  sire's  heart,  replenishing  its  source 
With  life,  as  our  freed  souls  rejoin  the  universe. 


Turn  to  the  Mole  which  Hadrian  rear'd  on  high, 
Imperial  mimic  of  old  Egypt's  piles, 
Colossal  copyist  of  deformity. 
Whose  travell'd  phantasy  from  the  far  Nile's 
Enormous  model,  doom'd  the  artist's  toils 
To  build  for  giants,  and  for  his  vain  earth, 
His  shrunken  ashes,  raise  this  dome:  How  smiles 
The  gazer's  eye  with  philosophic  mirth. 
To  view  the  huge  design  which  sprung  from  such  a  birth! 


But  lo!  the  dome — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome, 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyaena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  survey'd 
Its  sanctuary  the  while  the  usurping  Moslem  pray'd; 

CLIV. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone — with  nothing  like  to  thee — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  He 
Forsook  His  former  city,  what  could  be. 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  His  honor  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?    Majesty, 
Power,  Glory,  Strength,  and  Beauty,  all  are  aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 


Enter:  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not; 
Any  why?  it  is  not  lessen'd;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot. 
Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined. 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  Holy  of  Holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  His  brow, 

4ji — -^ ^- »♦ 


^ — -m^ 

eeO  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

CLVI. 

ThoTi  movest — ^but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth  rise, 
Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance; 
Vastness  which  grows — but  grows  to  harmonize — 
All  musical  in  its  immensities; 

Rich  marbles — richer  painting — shrines  where  flame 
The  lamps  of  gold— and  haughty  dome  which  vies 
In  air  with  Earth's  chief  stmctures,  though  their  frame 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground— and  this  the  clouds  must  claim. 


Thou  seest  not  all;  but  piecemeal  thou  must  break. 
To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye — so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 
Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart, 


Not  by  its  fault — but  thine:   Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp — and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression;  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and  greatest  of  the  great 
Defies  at  first  our  Nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 


Then  pause,  and  be  enlighten'd;  there  is  more 
In  such  a  survey  than  the  sating  gaze 
Of  wonder  pleased,  or  awe  which  would  adore 
The  worship  of  the  place,  or  the  mere  praise 
Of  art  and  its  great  masters,  who  could  raise 
What  former  time,  nor  skill,  nor  thought  could  plan; 
The  fountain  of  sublimity  displays 
Its  depth,  and  thence  may  draw  the  mind  of  man 
Its  golden  sands,  and  learn  what  great  conceptions  can. 


Or,  turning  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 
Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain — 
A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending: — Vain 
The  struggle;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 
And  gripe,  and  deepening  of  the  dragon's  grasp, 
The  old  niiin's  clench;  the  long  envenom'd  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 


*ih 


^^Wr— W^ 

CANTO  rv.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  661 


Or  view  the  Lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  ti'iumph  in  the  fight; 
The  shaft  hath  just  been  shot — the  arrow  bright 
With  an  immortal's  vengeance;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain,  and  might 
And  majesty,  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  Deity. 

CLXII. 

But  in  his  delicate  form— a  dream  of  Love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Long'd  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  madden'd  in  that  vision — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  bless'd 
The  mind  with  in  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest — • 
A  ray  of  immortality — and  stood. 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gather'd  to  a  god  I 


And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  array'd 
With  an  eternal  glory — which,  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallow' d  it,  not  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dHst— nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which  'twas 
wrought. 


But  where  is  he,  the  Pilgrim  of  my  song, 
The  being  who  upheld  it  through  the  past? 
Methinks  he  cometh  late  and  tarries  long. 
He  is  no  more — ^these  breathings  are  his  last; 
His  wanderings  done,  his  visions  ebbing  fast, 
And  he  himself  as  nothing: — ^if  he  was 
Aught  but  a  phantasy,  and  could  be  class'd 
With  forms  which  live  and  suffer— let  that  pass — 
His  shadow  fades  away  into  Destruction's  mass, 

CLXV. 

Which  gathers  shadow,  substance,  life,  and  all 
That  we  inherit  in  its  mortal  shroud. 
And  spreads  the  dim  and  universal  pall 
Through  which  all  things  grow  phantoms;  and  the  cloud 
Between  us  sinks  and  all  which  ever  glow'd. 
Till  Glory's  self  is  twilight,  and  displays 
A  melancholy  halo  scarce  allow'd 
To  hover  on  the  verge  of  darkness;  rays 
Sadder  than  saddest  night,  for  they  distract  the  gaze. 


*it 


f 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

CLXVI. 

And  send  us  prying  into  the  abyss, 
To  gather  what  we  shall  be  when  the  frame 
Shall  be  resolved  to  something  less  than  this 
Its  wretched  essence;  and  to  dream  of  fame, 
And  wipe  the  dust  from  off  the  idle  name 
We  never  more  shall  hear, — but  never  more. 
Oh,  happier  thought!  can  we  be  made  the  same: 
It  is  enough  in  sooth  that  once  we  bore 
These  fardels  of  the  heart — the  heart  whose  sweat  was  gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark!  forth  from  the  abyss  a  voice  proceeds, 
A  long  low  distant  murmur  of  dread  sound, 
Such  as  arises  when  a  nation  bleeds 
With  some  deep  and  immedicable  wound; 
Through  storm  and  darkness  yawns  the  rending  ground, 
The  gulf  is  thick  with  phantoms,  but  the  chief 
Seems  royal  still,  though  with  her  head  discrown'd. 
And  pale,  but  lovely,  with  maternal  grief 
She  clasps  a  babe,  to  whom  her  breast  yields  no  relief. 


Scion  of  chiefs  and  monarchs,  where  art  thou? 
Fond  hope  of  many  nations,  art  thou  dead? 
Could  not  the  grave  forget  thee,  and  lay  low 
>Some  less  majestic,  less  beloved  head? 
In  the  sad  midnight,  while  thy  heart  still  bled, 
The  mother  of  a  moment,  o'er  thy  boy. 
Death  hush'd  that  pang  lor  ever;  with  thee  fled 
The  present  happiness  and  promised  joy 
Which  fill'd  the  imperial  isles  so  full  it  seem'd  to  cloy. 


Peasants  bring  forth  in  safety. — Can  it  be, 
O  thou  that  wert  so  happy,  so  adored! 
Those  who  weep  not  for  kings  shall  weep  for  thee. 
And  Freedom's  heart,  grown  heavy,  cease  to  hoard, 
Her  many  griefs  for  One;  for  she  had  pour'd 
Her  orisons  for  thee,  and  o'er  thy  head 
Beheld  her  Iris.— Thou,  too,  lonely  lord, 
And  desolate  consort — vainly  wert  thou  wed! 
The  husband  of  a  year!  the  father  of  the  dead! 


-t 


Of  sackcloth  was  thy  wedding-garment  made; 
Thy  bridal's  fruit  is  "ashes:  in  the  dust 
The  fair-hair'd  Daughter  of  the  Isles  is  laid, 
The  love  of  millions!    How  we  did  entrust        * 
Futurity  to  her!   and,  though  it  must 
Darken  above  our  bones,  yet  fondly  deem'd 
Our  children  should  obey  her  child,  and  bless'd 
Her  and  her  hoped-for  seed,  whose  promise  seem'd 
Like  star  to  shepherds'  eyes:— 'twas  but  a  meteor  beamed. 


41- 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE.  663 

CLXXI. 

Woe  unto  us,  not  her;  for  she  sleeps  well: 
The  fickle  reek  of  popular  breath,  the  tongue 
Of  hollow  counsel,  the  false  oracle, 
Which  from  the  birth  of  monarchy  hath  rung 
Its  knell  in  princely  ears-,  till  the  o'erstung 
Nations  have  arm'd  in  madness,  the  strange  fate 
Which  tumbles  mightiest  sovereigns,  and  hath  flung 
Against  their  blind  omnipotence  a  weight 
Within  the  opposing  scale,  which  crushes  soon  or  late, — ■ 

CLXXII. 

These  might  have  been  her  destiny;  but  no, 
Our  hearts  deny  it:  and  so  young,  so  fair, 
Good  without  effort,  great  without  a  foe; 
But  now  a  bride  and  mother — and  now  there! 
How  many  ties  did  that  stem  moment  tear! 
From  thy  Sire's  to  his  humblest  subject's  breast 
Is  link'd  the  electric  chain  of  that  despair. 
Whose  shock  was  as  an  earthquake's,  and  opprest 
The  land  which  loved  thee,  so  that  none  could  love  thee  best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo,  Nemi!  navell'd  in  the  woody  hills 
So  far,  that  the  uprooting  wind  which  tears 
The  oak  from  his  foundation,  and  which  spills 
The  ocean  o'er  its  boundary,  and  bears 
Its  foam  against  the  skies,  reluctant  spares 
The  oval  mirror  of  thy  glassy  lake; 
And,  calm  as  cherish 'd  hate,  its  surface  wears 
A  deep  cold  settled  aspect  nought  can  shake. 
All  coil'd  into  Itself  and  round,  as  sleeps  the  snake. 


And  near  Albano's  scarce  divided  waves 
Shine  from  a  sister  valley; — and  afar 
The  Tiber  winds,  and  the  broad  ocean  laves 
The  Latian  coast  where  sprung  the  Epic  war, 
"Arms  and  the  Man,"  whose  reascending  star 
Rose  o'er  an  empire:— but  beneath  thy  right 
TuUy  reposed  from  Rome: — and  where  yon  bar 
Of  girdling  mountains  intercepts  the  sight, 
The  Sabine  farm  was  till'd,  the  weary  bard's  delight. 


*jt 


CLXXV. 

But  I  forget,— My  Pilgrim's  shrine  is  won, 
And  he  and  I  must  part, — so  let  it  be — 
His  task  and  mine  alike  are  nearly  done; 
Yet  once  more  let  us  look  upon  the  sea; 
The  midland  ocean  breaks  on  him  and  me, 
And  from  the  Alban  Mount  we  now  behold 
Our  friend  of  youth,  that  Ocean,  which  when  we 
Beheld  it  last  byXalpe's  rock  unfold 
Those  v/aves,  we  "followed  on  till  the  dark  Euxine  roU'd 


ih 


*# ^ 

664  CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,      [canto  iv. 


Upon  the  blue  Symplej^ades:  long  years- 
Long,  though  hot  very  many,  since  have  done 
Their  work  on  both;  some  suffering  and  some  tears 
Have  left  us  nearly  where  we  had  begun: 
Yet  not  in  vain  our  mortal  race  hath  run, 
We  have  had  our  reward — and  it  is  here; 
That  we  can  yet  feel  gladden'd  by  the  sun. 
And  reap  from  earth,  sea,  joy  almost  as  dear 
As  if  there  were  no  man  to  trouble  what  is  clear. 


Oh!  that  the  Desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  Spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements!— in  whose  ennoblmg  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean— roll  I 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  contr£)l 
Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 


His  steps  are  upon  thy  paths — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  sond'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth:— there  let  him  lay. 


ih 


CANTO  IV.]    CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war: 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  wave's  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 


Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  ol  Eternity — thethrone 
Of  the  Invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 


And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward:  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I  do  here. 


My  task  is  done — my  song  hath  ceased — ^my  theme 
Has  died  into  an  echo;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  i)rotraeted  dream. 
The  torch  shall  be  extinguish'd  which  hath  lit 
My  midnight  lamp — and  what  is  writ  is  writ — 
Would  it  were  worthier!  but  I  am  not  now 
That  which  I  have  been — and  my  visions  flit 
Less  palpably  before  me — and  the  glow 
Which  in  my  spirit  dwelt  is  fluttering,  faint,  and  low. 


665 


ih 


^h 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE,     [canto  iv. 

OLXXXVI. 

Farewell!  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been — 
A  sound  which  makes  us  linger; — yet — fare  well  I 
.  Ye!  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  tbe  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell; 
Farewell!  with  him  alone  may  rest  the  pain, 
If  such  there  were— with  you,  the  moral  of  his  strain. 


♦«■ 


* 


-IK 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAR 


THE  LAKE  POETS,  (FROM  DEDICATION.) 

Bob  Southey!  You  're  a  poet— Poet-laureate, 

And  representative  of  all  the  race. 
Although  'tis  true  that  you  're  turn'd  out  a  Tory  at 

Last, — ^yours  has  lately  been  a  common  ease, — 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade!  what  are  ye  at? 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  '*  four-and-twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye; 

"  Which  pye  being  open'd,  they  began  to  sing'* 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds  good), 

"A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 
Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of  food; — 

And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing. 
But  like  a  hawk  encumber'd  with  his  hood, —  , 

Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation — 

I  wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 

You,  Bob!  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 

At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 

And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish; 
And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so, 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying  fish 
Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too  high.  Bob, 
And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture,  quite  a-dry.  Bob! 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "  Excursion" 
(I  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred  pages), 

Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  version 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages; 

'Tis  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion. 
And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star  rages; 

And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 

To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 


♦^^ 


4H- 


Hf- 


i- 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

You,  Gentlemen!  by  dint  of  long  seclusion 
From  better  company,  have  kept  your  own 

At  Keswick,  and,  through  still  continued  fusion 
Of  one  another's  minds,  at  last  have  grown    • 

To  deem,  as  a  most  logical  conclusion. 
That  Poesy  has  wreaths  for  you  alone: 

There  is  a  narrowness  in  such  a  notion, 

Which  makes  me  wish  you'd  change  your  lakes  for  ocean. 


PORTRAIT  OF  JULIA. 


Her  eye  (I'm  very  fond  of  handsome  eyes) 
Was  large  and  dark,  suppressing  half  its  fire 

Until  she  spoke,  then  through  Hs  soft  disguise 
Flash 'd  an  expression  more  of  pride  than  ire, 

And  love  than  either;  and  there  would  arise 
A  something  in  them  which  was  not  desire, 

But  would  have  been,  perhaps,  but  for  the  soul 

Which  struggled  through  and  chasten'd  down  the  whole. 

Her  glossy  hair  was  cluster'd  o'er  a  brow 
Bright  with  intelligence,  and  fair,  and  smooth; 

Her  eyebrows'  shape  was  like  the  aerial  bow, 
Her  cheek  all  purple,  with  the  beam  of  youth, 

Mounting,  at  times,  to  a  transparent  glow. 
As  if  her  veins  ran  lightning;  she,  in  sooth, 

Possess'd  an  air  and  grace  by  no  means  common: 

Her  stature  tall— I  hate  a  dumpy  woman. 


JUAN'S  LOVE. 

Young  Juan  wander'd  by  the  glassy  brooks, 
Thinking  unutterable  things;  he  threw 

Himself  at  length  within  the  leafy  nooks 
Where  the  wild  branch  of  the  cork  forest  grew; 

There  poets  find  materials  for  their  books. 
And  every  now  and  then  we  read  them  through, 

So  that  their  plan  and  prosody  are  eligible, 

Unless,  like  Wordsworth,  they  prove  unintelligible. 

He  (Juan,  and  not  Wordsworth)  so  pursued 
His  self-communion  with  his  own  high  soul, 

Until  his  mighty  heart,  in  its  great  mood, 
Had  mitigated  part,  though  not  the  whole 

Of  its  disease;  he  did  the  best  he  could 
With  things  not  very  subject  to  control. 

And  tum'd,  without  perceiving  his  condition. 

Like  Coleridge,  into  a  metaphysician. 

He  thought  about  himself,  and  the  whole  earth. 
Of  man  the  wonderful,  and  of  the  stars, 

And  how  the  deuce  they  ever  could  have  birth; 
And  then  he  thought  of  earthquakes,  and  of  wars, 


iK 


Hfr 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

How  many  miles  the  moon  might  have  in  girth, 

Of  air-balloons,  and  of  the  many  bars 
To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  boundless  skies; — 
And  then  he  thought  of  Donna  Julia's  eyes. 

In  thoughts  like  these  true  wisdom  may  discern 
Longings  sublime,  and  aspirations  high, 

Which  some  are  born  with,  but  the  most  part  learn 
To  plague  themselves  withal,  they  know  not  why: 

'Twas  strange  that  one  so  young  should  thus  concern 
His  brain  about  the  action  of  the  sky; 

If  you  think  'twas  philosophy  that  this  did, 

I  can't  help  thinking  puberty  assisted. 

He  pored  upon  the  leaves,  and  on  the  flowers, 
And  heard  a  voice  in  all  the  winds;  and  then 

He  thought  of  wood-nymphs  and  immortal  bowers, 
And  how  the  goddesses  came  down  to  men: 

He  miss'd  the  pathway,  he  forgot  the  hours, 
And  when  he  look'd  upon  his  watch  again. 

He  found  how  much  old  Time  had  been  a  winner — 

He  also  found  that  he  had  lost  his  dinner. 

Sometimes  he  tum'd  to  gaze  upon  his  book, 

Boscan,  or  Garcilasso; — by  the  wind 
Even  as  the  page  is  rustled  while  we  look. 

So  by  the  poesy  of  his  own  mind 
Over  the  mystic  leaf  his  soul  was  shook, 

As  if  'twere  one  whereon  magicians  bind 
Their  spells,  and  give  them  to  the  passing  gale, 
According  to  some  good  old  woman's  tale. 


SWEET  THINGS. 


'Tis  sweet  to  hear 

At  midnight  on  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep 
The  song  and  oar  of  Adria's  gondolier. 

By  distance  mellow'd,  o'er  the  waters  sweep; 
'Tis  sweet  to  see  the  evening  star  appear; 

'Tis  sweet  to  listen  as  the  night-winds  creep 
From  leaf  to  leaf;  'tis  sweet  to  view  on  high 
The  rainbow,  based  on  ocean,  span  the  sky. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark 
Bay  deep-mouth'd  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home; 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come; 

'Tis  sweet  to  be  awaken 'd  by  the  lark, 
Or  lull'd  by  falling  waters;  sweet  the  hum 

Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds. 

The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

Sweet  is  the  vintage,  when  the  showering  grapes 

In  bacchanal  profusion  reel  to  earth. 
Purple  and  gushing:  sweet  are  our  escapes 

From  civic  revelry  to  rural  mirth; 

■* ^ IK 


670  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Sweet  to  the  miser  are  his  glittering  heaps. 

Sweet  to  the  father  is  his  first-born's  birtn, 
Sweet  is  revenge — especially  to  women, 
Pillage  to  soldiers,  prize-money  to  seamen. 

Sweet  is  a  legacy,  and  passing  sweet 
The  unexpected  death  of  some  old  lady, 

Orgentleman  of  seventy  years  complete, 
Who  've  made  **us  youth  "  wait  too — ^too  long  already 

For  an  estate,  or  cash,  or  country  seat, 
Still  breaking,  but  with  stamina  so  steady. 

That  all  the  Israelites  are  fit  to  mob  its 

Next  owner  for  their  double-damn'd  post-obits. 

'Tis  sweet  to  win,  no  matter  how,  one's  laurels, 
By  blood  or  ink;  'tis  sweet  to  put  an  end 

To  strife;  'tis  sometimes  sweet  to  have  our  quarrels 
Particularly  with  a  tiresome  i.iend: 

Sweet  is  old  wine  in  bottles,  ale  in  barrels; 
Dear  is  the  helpless  creature  we  defend 

Against  the  world;  and  dear  the  schoolboy  spot 

We  ne'er  forget,  though  there  we  are  forgot. 


SQUANDERED  YOUTH. 


But  now  at  thirty  years  my  hair  is  gray — 

(I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  at  forty? 
I  thought  of  a  peruke  the  other  day — )        ^ 

My  heart  is  not  much  greener;  and,  in  short,  I 
Have  squander'd  my  whole  summer  while  'twas  May, 

And  feel  no  more  the  spirit  to  retort;  I 
Have  spent  my  life,  both  interest  and  principal,    ^ 
And  deem  not,  what  I  deem'd,  my  soul  invincibleT 

No  more — no  more — oh!  never  more  on  me 
The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew. 

Which  out  of  all  the  lovely  things  we  see 
Extracts  emotions  beautiful  and  new, 

Hived  in  our  bosomo  litre  the  bag  o'  the  bee, 
Think'st  thou  the  honey  with  those  objects  grew? 

Alas!   'twas  not  in  them,  but  in  thy  power. 

To  double  even  the  sweetness  of  a  flower. 

No  more — no  more — oh!  never  more,  my  heart, 
Canst  thou  be  my  sole  world,  my  universe! 

Once  all  in  all,  but  now  a  thing  apart. 
Thou  canst  not  be  my  blessing  or  my  curse: 

The  illusion  's  gone  for  ever,  and  thou  art 
Insensible,  I  trust,  but  none  the  worse, 

And  in  my  stead  I've  got  a  deal  of  judgment. 

Though  Heaven  knows  how  it  ever  found  a  lodgment. 

My  days  of  love  are  over;  me  no  more* 
The  charms  of  maid,  wife,  and  still  less  of  widow, 

♦  "  Me  nee  femina,  nee  puer 

Jam,  nee  spes  aninii  credula  mutui, 

Nee  certare  juvtit  mero; 

Nee  viucire  uovis  teiupora  floribus."— Hon. 


-Ht 


Storm  and  Shipwreck.' 


Byron. 


Pag«  671. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  671 

Can  make  the  fool  of  which  they  made  before, — 

In  short,  I  must  not  lead  the  life  I  did  do; 
The  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er, 

The  copious  use  of  claret  is  forbid  too. 
So  for  a  good  old  gentlemanly  vice, 
I  think  I  must  take  up  with  avarice. 


STORM  AND  SHIPWRECK. 

The  ship,  call'd  the  most  holy  "  Trinidada," 

Was  steering  duly  for  the  port  Leghorn; 
For  there  the  Spanish  family  Moncada 

Were  settled  long  ere  Juan's  sire  was  bom: 
They  were  relations,  and  for  ttiem  he  had  a 

Letter  of  introduction,  which  the  morn 
Of  his  departure  had  been  sent  him  by 
His  Spanish  friends  for  those  in  Italy. 

Hi&  suite  consisted  of  three  servants  and 

A  tutor,  the  licentiate  Pedrillo, 
Who  several  languages  did  understand, 

But  now  lay  sick  and  speechless  on  his  pillow, 
And  rocking  in  his  hammock,  long'd  for  land, 
'    His  headache  being  increased  by  every  billow; 
And  the  waves  oozing  through  the  port-hole  made 
His  berth  a  little  damp,  and  him  afraid. 

'Twas  not  without  some  reason,  for  the  wind 

Increased  at  night,  until  it  blew  a  gale; 
And  though  'twas  not  much  to  a  naval  mind. 

Some  landsmen  would  have  look'd  a  little  pale, 
For  sailors  are,  in  fact,  a  different  kind: 

At  sunset  they  began  to  take  in  sail. 
For  the  sky  show'd  it  would  come  on  to  blow. 
And  carry  away,  perhaps,  a  mast  or  so. 

At  one  o'clock  the  wind  with  sudden  shift 
Threw  the  ship  right  into  the  trough  of  the  sea, 

Which  struck  her  aft,  and  made  an  awkward  rift. 
Started  the  stem-post,  also  shatter'd  the 

Whole  of  her  stem-frame,  and,  ere  she  could  lift 
Herself  from  out  her  present  jeopardy. 

The  rudder  tore  away:  'twas  time  to  sound 

The  pumps,-  and  there  were  four  feet  water  found. 

One  gang  of  people  instantly  was  put 

Upon  the  pumps,  and  the  remainder  set 
To  get  up  pai-t  of  the  cargo,  and  what  not; 

But  they  could  not  come  at  the  leak  as  yet; 
At  last  they  did  get  at  it  really,  but 

Still  their  salvation  was  an  even  bet: 
The  water  rush  d  through  in  a  way  quite  puzzling. 
While  they  thrust  sheets,  shirts,  jackets,  bales  of  muslin, 

Into  the  opening;  but  all  such  ingredients 
Would  have  been  vain,  and  they  must  have  gone  down. 


♦it 


672  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Despite  of  all  their  efforts  and  expedients, 
But  for  the  pumps;  I'm  glad  to  make  them  known 

To  all  the  brother  tars  who  may  have  need  hence, 
For  fifty  tons  of  water  were  upthrown 

By  them  per  hour,  and  they  had  all  been  undone, 

But  for  the  maker,  Mr.  Maun,  of  London. 

As  day  advanced  the  weather  seem'd  to.  abate. 
And  then  the  leak  they  reckon'd  to  reduce. 

And  keep  the  ship  afloat,  though  three  feet  yet 
Kept  two  hand  and  one  chain  pump  still  in  use. 

The  wind  blew  afresh  again:  as  it  grew  late 
A  squall  came  on,  and  while  some  guns  broke  loose, 

A  gust — which  all  descriptive  power  transcends — 

Laid  with  one  blast  the  ship  on  her  beam  ends. 

There  she  lay,  motionless,  and  seem'd  upset; 

The  water  left  the  hold  and  wash'd  the  decks, 
And  made  a  scene  men  do  not  soon  forget; 

For  they  remember  battles;  fires,  and  wrecks, 
Or  any  other  thing  that  brings  regret. 

Or  breaks  their  nopes,  or  hearts,  or  heads,  or  necks: 
Thus  drownings  are  much  talk'd  of  by  the  divers, 
And  swimmers,  who  may  chance  to  be  survivors. 

Immediately  the  masts  were  cut  away, 
Both  main  and  mizzen;  first  the  mizzen  went. 

The  mainmast  follow'd:  but  the  ship  still  lay 
Like  a  mere  log,  and  baffled  our  intent. 

Foremast  and  bowsprit  were  cut  down,  and  they 
Eased  her  at  last  (although  we  never  meant 

To  part  with  all  till  every  hope  was  blighted), 

And  then  with  violence  the  old  ship  righted. 

It  may  be  easily  supposed,  while  this 
Was  going  on,  some  people  were  unquiet, 

That  passengers  would  find  it  much  amiss 
To  lose  their  lives,  as  well  as  spoil  their  diet; 

That  even  the  able  seaman,  deeming  his 
Days  nearly  o'er,  might  be  disposed  to  riot, 

As  upon  such  occasions  tars  will  ask 

For  grog,  and  sometimes  drink  rum  from  the  cask. 

There  's  nought,  no  doubt,  so  much  the  spirit  calms 

As  rum  and  true  religion:  thus  it  was 
Some  plunder'd,  some  drank  spirits,  some  sung  psalms, 

The  high  wind  made  the  treble,  and  as  bass 
The  hoarse  harsh  waves  kept  time;  fright  cured  the  qualms 

Of  all  the  luckless  landsmen's  sea-sick  maws: 
Strange  sounds  of  wailing,  blasphemy,  devotion, 
Clamor'd  in  chorus  to  the  roaiing  ocean. 

Perhaps  more  mischief  had  been  done,  but  for 
Our  Juan,  who,  with  sense  beyond  his  years, 

Got  to  the  spirit-room,  and  stood  before 
It  with  a  pair  of  pistols;  and  their  fears, 


^K 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.        673 

As  if  Death  were  more  dreadful  by  his  door 

Of  fire  than  water,  spite  of  oaths  and  tears, 
Kept  still  aloof  the  crew,  who,  ere  they  sunk. 
Thought  it  would  be  becoming  to  die  drunk. 

"  Give  us  more  grog,"  they  cried,  "  for  it  will  be 
All  one  an  hour  hence."    Juan  answer'd,  "No! 

'Tis  true  that  death  awaits  both  you  and  me. 
But  let  us  die  like  men,  not  sink  below 

Like  brutes:" — and  thus  his  dangerous  post  kept  he, 
And  none  liked  to  anticipate  the  blow; 

And  even  Pedrillo,  his  most  reverend  tutor, 

Was  for  some  rum  a  disappointed  suitor. 

The  good  old  gentleman  was  quite  aghast, 

And  made  a  loud  and  pious  lamentation, 
Repented  all  his  sins,  and  made  a  last 

Irrevocable  vow  of  reformation; 
Nothing  should  tempt  him  more  (this  peril  past) 

To  quit  his  academic  occupation,  . 
In  cloisters  of  the  classic  Salamanca, 
To  follow  Juan's  wake,  like  Sancho  Panca. 

But  now  there  came  a  flash  of  hope  once  more; 

Day  broke,  and  the  wind  lull'd:  the  masts  were  gone. 
The  leak  increased;  shoals  round  her,  but  no  shore: 

The  vessel  swam,  yet  still  she  held  her  own. 
They  tried  the  pumps  again,  and  though  before 

Their  desperate  efforts  seem'd  all  useless  grown, 
A  glimpse  of  sunshine  set  some  hands  to  bale — 
The  stronger  pump'd,  the  weaker  thrumm'd  a  sail. 

Under  the  vessel's  keel  the  sail  was  past. 

And  for  the  moment  it  had  some  effect; 
But  with  a  leak,  and  not  a  stick  of  mast, 

Nor  rag  of  canvas,  what  could  they  expect? 
But  still  'tis  best  to  struggle  to  the  last, 

'Tis  never  too  late  to  be  wholly  wreck'd: 
And  though  'tis  true  that  man  can  only  die  once, 
'Tis  not  so  pleasant  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

There  winds  and  waves  had  hurl'd  them,  and  from  thence. 
Without  their  will,  they  carried  them  away; 

For  they  were  forced  with  steering  to  dispense. 
And  never  had  as  yet  a  quiet  day 

On  which  they  might  repose,  or  even  commence 
A  jurymast  or  rudder,  or  could  say 

The  ship  would  swim  an  hour,  which,  by  good  luck. 

Still  swam — though  not  exactly  like  a  duck. 

The  wind,  in  fact,  perhaps,  was  rather  less. 
But  the  ship  labor'd  so,  they  scarce  could  hope 

To  weather  out  much  longer;  the  distress 
Was  also  great  with  which  they  had  to  cope 

For  want  of  water,  and  their  solid  mess 
Was  scant  enough:  in  vain  the  telescope 

Was  used— nor  sail  nor  shore  appear'd  in  sight, 

Nought  but  the  heavy  sea,  and  coming  night. 

CO 

-t 1 


674  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Again  the  weather  threaten'd, — again  blew 

A  gale,  and  in  the  fore  and  after  hold 
Water  appeared;  yet,  though  the  people  knew 

All  this,  the  most  were  patient,  and  some  bold, 
Until  the  chains  and  leathers  were  worn  through 

Of  all  our  pumps: — a  wreck  complete  she  roD'd, 
At  mercy  of  the  waves,  whose  mercies  are 
Like  human  beings  during  civil  war. 

Then  came  the  carpenter,  at  last,  with  tears 
In  his  rough  eyes,  and  told  the  captain  he 

Could  do  no  more:  he  was  a  man  in  years. 
And  long  had  voyaged  through  many  a  stormy  sea, 

And  if  he  wept  at  length,  they  were  not  fears 
That  made  his  eyelids  as  a  woman's  be. 

But  he,  poor  fellow,  had  a  wife  and  children, — 

Two  things  for  dying  people  quite  bewildering. 

The  ship  was  evidently  settling  now 
Fast  by  the  head;  and,  all  distinction  gone, 

Some  went  to  prayers  again,  and  made  a  vow 
Of  candles  to  their  saints — but  there  were  none 

To  pay  them  with;  and  some  look'd  o'er  the  bow; 
Some  hoisted  out  the  boats;  and  there  was  one 

That  begg'd  Pedrillo  for  an  absolution, 

"Who  told  him  to  be  damn'd--in  his  confusion. 

Some  lash'd  them  in  their  hammocks;  some  put  on 
Their  best  clothes,  as  if  going  to  a  fair; 

Some  cursed  the  day  on  which  they  saw  the  sun, 
And  gnash'd  their  teeth,  and,  howling,  tore  their  hair; 

And  others  went  on  as  they  had  begun, 
Getting  the  boats  out,  being  well  aware 

That  a  tight  boat  will  live  in  a  rough  sea, 

Unless  with  breakers  close  beneath  her  lee. 

The  worst  of  all  was,  that  in  their  condition, 
Having  been  several  days  in  great  distress, 

'Twas  difficult  to  get  out  such  provision 
As  now  might  render  their  long  suffering  less: 

Men,  even  when  dying,  dislike  inanition; 
Their  stock  was  damaged  by  the  weather's  stress: 

Two  casks  of  biscuit,  and  a  keg  of  butter, 

Were  all  that  could  be  thrown  into  the  cutter. 

But  in  the  long-boat  they  contrived  to  stow 
Some  pounds  of  bread,  though  injured  by  the  wet; 

Water,  a  twenty-gallon  cask  or  so: 
Six  flasks  of  wine;  and  they  contrived  to  get 

A  portion  of  their  beef  up  from  below, 
And  with  a  piece  of  pork,  moreover,  met. 

But  scarce  enough  to  serve  them  for  a  luncheon — 

Then  there  was  rum,  eight  gallons  in  a  puncheon. 

The  other  boats,  the  yawl  and  pinnace,  had 
Been  stove  in  the  beginning  of  the  gale; 

And  the  long-boat's  condition  was  but  bad, 
As  there  were  but  two  blankets  for  a  sail, 


■H^ 


i 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

And  one  oar  for  a  mast,  which  a  young  lad 

Threw  in  by  good  luck,  over  the  ship's  rail; 
And  two  boats  could  not  hold,  far  less  be  stored, 
To  save  one-half  the  people  then  on  board. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters;  like  a  veil. 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 

Of  one  whose  hate  is  mask'd  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown. 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  the  faces  pale. 
And  the  dim  desolate  deep:  twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

Some  trial  had  been  making  at  a  raft. 

With  little  hope  in  such  a  rolling  sea, 
A  sort  of  thing  at  which  one  would  have  laugh'd, 

If  any  laughter  at  such  times  could  be. 
Unless  with  people  who  too  much  have  quaff'd. 

And  have  a  kind  of  wild  and  horrid  glee. 
Half  epileptical  and  half  hysterical; — 
Their  preservation  would  have  been  a  miracle. 

At  half-past  eight  o'clock,  booms,  hencoops,  spars, 
And  all  things,  for  a  chance,  had  been  cast  loose, 

That  still  could  keep  afloat  the  struggling  tars. 
For  yet  they  strove,  although  of  no  great  use: 

There  was  no  light  in  heaven  but  a  few  stars. 
The  boats  put  off  o'ercrowded  with  their  crews; 

She  gave  a  heel,  and  then  a  lurch  to  port. 

And,  going  down  head  foremost — sunk,  in  short. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell — 
Then  shriek 'd  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave,- 

Then  some  leap'd  overboard  with  dreadful  yell. 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 

And  the  sea  yawn'd  around  her  like  a  hell, 
And  down  she  suck'd  with  her  the  whirling  wave, 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy. 

And  strives  to  strangle  him  before  he  die. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rush'd. 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  thunder;  and  then  all  was  hush'd. 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows;  but  at  intervals  there  gush'd 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 

The  boats,  as  stated,  had  got  off  before. 
And  in  them  crowded  several  of  the  crew; 

And  yet  their  present  hope  was  hardly  more 
Than  what  it  had  been,  for  so  strong  it  blew, 

There  was  slight  chance  of  reaching  any  shore; 
And  then  they  were  too  many,  though  so  few — 

Nine  in  the  cutter,  thirty  In  the  boat. 

Were  counted  In  them  when  they  got  afloat. 


675 


ih 


r 


-IK 


676  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

All  the  rest  perish'd;  near  two  hundred  bouIs 
Had  left  their  bodies;  and  what's  worse,  alas! 

When  over  Catholics  the  ocean  rolls, 
They  must  wait  several  weeks  before  a  mass 

Takes  off  one  peck  of  purgatorial  coals, 
Because,  till  people  know  what's  come  to  pass, 

They  won't  lay  out  their  money  on  the  dead — 

It  costs  three  francs  for  every  mass  that's  said. 


AN  EASTERN  PICTURE. 

And  further  on  a  troop  of  Grecian  girls, 
The  first  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 

Were  strung  together  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
Link'd  hand  in  hand,  and  dancing;  each,  too,  having 

Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls — 
(The  least  of  which  would  set  ten  poets  raving); 

Their  leader  sang — ^and  bounded  to  her  song. 

With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

And  here,  assembled  cross-legg'd  round  their  trays, 

Small  social  parties  just  begun  to  dine; 
Pilaus  and  meats  of  all  sorts  met  the  gaze. 

And  flasks  of  Samian  and  of  Chian  wine, 
And  sherbet  cooling  in  the  porous  vase;* 

Above  them  their  desert  grew  on  its  vine; 
The  orange  and  pomegranate  nodding  o'er 
Dropp'd  in  their  laps,  scarce  pluck'd,  their  mellow  store. 

A  band  of  children,  round  a  snow-white  ram. 
There  wreathe  his  venerable  horns  with  flowers; 

While  peaceful,  as  if  still  an  unwean'd  lamb. 
The  patriarch  of  the  flock  all  gently  cowers 

His  sober  head,  majestically  tame. 
Or  eats  from  out  the  palm,  or  playful  lowers 

His  brow,  as  if  in  act  to  butt,  and  then 

Yielding  to  their  small  hands,  draws  back  again. 

Their  classic  profiles,  and  glittering  dresses, 
Their  large  black  eyes,  and  soft  seraphic  cheeks. 

Crimson  as  cleft  pomegranates,  their  long  tresses, 
The  gesture  which  enchants,  the  eye  that  speaks 

The  innocence  which  happy  childhood  blesses. 
Made  quite  a  picture  of  these  little  Greeks; 

So  that  the  philosophical  beholder 

Sigh'd  for  their  sakes— that  they  should  e'er  grow  older. 

Afar,  a  dwarf  buffoon  stood  telling  tales 

To  a  sedate  gray  circle  of  old  smokers, 
Of  secret  treasures  found  in  hidden  vales. 

Of  wonderful  replies  from  Arab  jokers. 
Of  charms  to  make  good  gold  and  cure  bad  ails, 

Of  rocks  bewitch 'd  that  open  to  the  knockers, 
Of  magic  ladies  who  by  one  sole  act, 
Transiorm'd  their  lords  to  beasts  (but  that's  a  fact). 


•IK 


^h 


*- 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 


677 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 

THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 
1. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace,— 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

2. 
The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest."* 

3. 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  au  hour  alone, 
I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

4. 
A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 
And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations; — all  were  hisl 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they?t 


And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine. 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

6. 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race. 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my.  face; 

*  The  vTjo-ot  ixoKaptov  of  the  Greek  poets  were  supposed  to  have 
been  the  Cape  de  Verd  Islands  or  the  Canaries. 

t  "  Deep  were  the  groans  of  Xerxes,  when  he  saw 
This  havoc;  for  his  seat,  a  lofty  mound 
Commanding  the  wide  sea,  o'erlook'd  the  hosts. 
With  rueful  cries  he  rent  his  royal  robes. 
And  through  his  1  roops  embattled  on  the  shore 
Gave  signal  of  retreat;  then  started  wild 
And  fled  disorder'd."— uEschylus. 


HJ' 


678  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

7. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush?— Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  1  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae! 

8. 
What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!" 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


In  vain — ^in  vain;  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  winel 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanall 

10. 
Tou  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

11. 
Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

12. 
The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind! 
Such  chains  as  "his  were  sure  to  bind. 

13. 
Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 


^h 


^h 


-IK 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 
14. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

"Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

15. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  winel 
Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 

I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid. 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

16. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  winel 


679 


TWILIGHT. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er, 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood. 
Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine. 
Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song. 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine. 
And  vesper  bells  that  rose  the  boughs  along; 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 
His  hell-dogs,  and  their  chase,  and  the  fair  throng 

Which  learn' d  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover— shadow' d  my  mind's  eye. 

O  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good  things—* 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer. 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'erlabor'd  steer; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 

Thou  bring' st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

♦See  Fragment  of  Sappho. 


^^ 


■ih- 


^ , 

eSO        EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Soft  hour!  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  ou  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scomsV 

Ah!  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns!* 

When  Nero  perish'd  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroy'd, 

Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 
Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  overjoy 'd. 

Some  hands  unseen  strew'd  flowers  upon  his  tomb,t 
Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not  void 

Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when  power 

Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 


DEATH  IN  YOUTH. 


The  heart — which  may  be  -broken:  happy  they! 

Thrice  fortunate!  who  of  that  fragile  mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 

Break  with  the  first  fall:  they  can  ne'er  behold 
The  long  year  link'd  with  heavy  day  on  day, 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never  told; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often  lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 
"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  was  said  of  yore,t 

And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by  this: 
The  death  of  friends,  and  that  which  slays  even  more — 

The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth,  all  that  is. 
Except  mere  breath;  and  since  the  silent  shore 

Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest  miss 
The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps  the  early  grave 
Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant  to  save. 


HAIDEE'S  DREAM. 


She  dream'd  of  being  alone  on  the  sea-shore, 
Chain'd  to  a  rock;  she  knew  not  how,  but  stir 

She  could  not  from  the  spot,  and  the  loud  roar 
Grew,  and  each  wave  rose  roughly,  threatening  her; 

And  o'er  her  dipper  lip  they  seem'd  to  pour, 

Until  she  sobb'd  for  breath,  and  soon  they  were 

Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and  high — 

Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not  die. 

♦  "  Era  gia  1'  ora  che  volge  '1  disio, 

A'  naviganti,  e  'ntenerisce  11  cuore; 
Lo  di  <rh'han  detto  a'  dolci  amici  a  dio; 

E  che  lo  niiovo  peregrin'  d'  amore 
Punge,  se  ode  Squilla  di  loniano, 
Che  paia  '1  giomo  pianger  che  si  muore." 

Dante's  Purgotori/,  canto  viii. 
This  last  line  is  the  first  of  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  taken  by  him  without 
acknowledgment. 
+  See  Suetonins  for  this  fact.  X  See  Herodotus. 

•* a. 


4 


■It 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  681 

Anon— she  was  released,  and  then  she  stray'd 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleeding  feet, 

And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made: 
And  something  roll'd  before  her  in  a  sheet, 

Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid: 
'Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopp'd  to  meet 

Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed  and  grasp'd, 

And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasp'd. 

The  dream  changed:— in  a  cave  she  stood,  its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles:  the  work 

Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 
Where  waves  might  wash,  and  seals  might  breed  and  lurk; 

Her  hair  was  dripping,  and  the  very  balls 
Of  her  black  eyes  seem'd  tum'd  to  tears,  and  mirk 

The  sharp  rocks  look'd  below  each  drop  they  caught, 

Which  froze  to  marble  as  it  fell, — she  thought. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless  at  her  feet, 
Pale  as  the  foam  that  froth'd  on  his  dead  brow. 

Which  she  essay'd  in  vain  to  clear,  (how  sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  hov/  idle  seem'd  they  now!) 

Lay  Juan,  nor  could  aught  r^new  the  beat 
Of  his  quench'd  heart;  and  the  sea  dirges  low 

Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's  song. 

And  that  brief  dream  appear' d  a  life  too  long. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his  face 

Faded,  or  alter'd  into  something  new — 
Like  to  her  father's  features,  till  each  trace 

More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect  grew — 
With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian  grace; 

And  starting,  she  awoke^  and  what  to  view? 
Oh!  Powers  of  Heaven!  what  dark  eye  meets  she  there? 
'Tis— 'ti8-b«r  father's — fix'd  upon  the  pair! 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking  fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to  see 

Him  whom  she  deem'd  a  habitant  where  dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to  be 

Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too  well: 
Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 

It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind 

I  have  seen  such — but  must  not  call  to  mind. 


MOORISH  PICTURE. 


I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe — 
Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely  wounded; 

Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom  bounded. 

She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and  chafe. 
And  then  give  way,  subdued  because  surrounded: 

Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 

Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 

cc* 


iK 


u 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 
In  marble  fonts;  there  grain,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 

Gush  from  the  earth  until  the  land  runs  o'er: 
But  there,  too,  many  a  poison-tree  has  root, 

And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar. 
And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's  foot, 

Or  heaving  whelm  the  helpless  caravan; 

And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man. 

Airic  is  all  the  sun's  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled;  full  of  jwwer 

For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's  hour. 

And  like  the  soil  beneath  it  will  bring  forth: 
Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's  dower; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  show'd  deep  Passion's  force, 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 


DANTE'S  COLUMN. 


I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid: 

A  little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn, 
Protects  his  dust,  but  reverence  here  is  paid 

To  the  bard's  tomb,  and  not  the  warrior's  column: 
The  time  must  come,  when  both  alike  decay'd. 

The  chieftain's  trophy  and  the  poet's  volume. 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  wars  of  earth, 
Before  Pelides'  death,  or  Iiomer's  birth. 

With  human  blood  that  column  was  cemented. 
With  human  filth  that  column  is  defiled. 

As  if  the  peasant's  coarse  contempt  were  vented 
To  show  his  loathing  of  the  spot  he  soil'd: 

Thus  is  the  trophy  used,  and  thus  lamented 
Should  ever  be  those  bloodhounds,  from  whose  wild 

Instinct  of  gore  and  glory  earth  has  known 

Those  sufferings  Dante  saw  in  hell  alone. 


LOVE. 

Thrones,  worlds,  et  cetera,  are  so  oft  upset 
By  commonest  ambition,  that  when  passion 

O'erthrows  the  same,  we  readily  forget, 
Or  at  the  least  forgive,  the  loying  rash  one. 

If  Antony  be  well  remember'd  yet, 
'Tis  not  his  conquests  keep  his  name  in  fashion, 

But  Actium,  lost  for  Cleopatra's  eyes, 

Outbalances  all  Caesar's  victories. 

He  died  at  fifty  for  a  queen  of  forty; 

I  wish  their  years  had  been  fifteen  and  twenty. 
For  then  wealth,  kingdoms,  worlds  are  but  a  sport — I 

Remember  when,  though  I  had  no  great  plenty 
Of  worlds  to  lose,  yet  still,  to  pay  my  court,  I 

Gave  what  I  had — a  heart:  as  the  world  went,  I 
Gave  what  was  worth  a  world;  for  worlds  could  never 
Restore  me  those  pure  feelings,  gone  for  ever. 


ih 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

'Twas  the  boy's  "  mite,"  and  like  the  "  widow's,"  may 
Perhaps  be  weigh'd  hereafter,  if  not  now; 

But  whether  such  things  do  or  do  not  weigh, 
All  who  have  loved,  or  love,  will  still  allow 

Life  has  nought  lise  it.     God  is  love,  they  say, 
And  Love's  a  god,  or  was  before  the  brow 

Of  earth  was  wrmkled  by  the  sins  and  tears 

Of— but  Chronology  best  knows  the  years. 


EASTERN  GROUP. 


Of  those  who  had  most  genius  for  this  sort 

Of  sentimental  friendship,  there  were  three, 
Lolah,  Katinka,  and  Dudu;  in  short, 

(To  save  description)  fair  as  fair  can  be 
Were  they,  according  to  the  best  report, 

Though  differing  in  stature  and  degree, 
And  clime  and  time,  and  country  and  complexion; 
They  all  alike  admired  their  new  connection. 

Lolah  was  dusk  as  India,  and  as  warm; 

Katinka  was  a  Georgian,  white  and  red. 
With  great  blue  eyes,  a  lovely  hand  and  arm, 

And  feet  so  small  they  scarce  seem'd  made  to  tread, 
But  rather  skim  the  earth;  while  Dudu's  form 

Look'd  more  adapted  to  be  put  to  bed. 
Being  somewhat  large,  and  languishing,  and  lazy. 
Yet  of  a  beauty  that  would  drive  you  crazy. 

A  kind  of  sleepy  Venus  seem'd  Dudu, 

Yet  very  lit  to  "  murder  sleep"  in  those 
Who  gazed  upon  her  cheek's  transcendent  hue, 

Her  Attic  forehead,  and  her  Phidian  nose: 
Few  angles  were  there  in  her  form,  'tis  true. 

Thinner  she  might  have  been,  and  yet  scarce  lose; 
Yet,  after  all,  'twould  puzzle  to  say  where 
It  would  not  spoil  some  separate  charm  to  pare. 

She  was  not  violently  lively,  but 

Stole  on  your  spirit  like  a  May-day  breaking; 
Her  eyes  were  not  too  sparkling,  yet,  half-shut. 

They  put  beholders  in  a  tender  taking; 
She  look'd  (this  simile's  quite  new)  just  cut 

From  marble,  like  Pygmalion's  statue  waking. 
The  mortal  and  the  marble  still  at  strife, 
And  timidly  expanding  into  life. 

Lolah  demanded  the  new  damsel's  name — 

"  Juanna." — Well,  a  pretty  name  enough. 
Katinka  ask'd  her  also  whence  she  came — 

"  From  Spain."—"  But  where  is  Spain?"—"  Don't 
ask  such  stuff, 
Nor  show  your  Georgian  ignorance — for  shame  1" 

Said  Lolah,  with  an  accent  rather  rough, 
To  poor  Katinka:  "  Spain's  an  island  near  ^ 

Morocco,  betwixt  Egypt  and  Tangier." 


♦ii n 


4i- 


684  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 


A  POSTURE. 

She  stood  a  moment  as  a  Pythoness 
Stands  on  her  tripod,  agonized,  and  full 

Of  inspiration  gather'd  from  distress. 
When  all  the  heart-strings  like  wild  horses  pull 

The  heart  asunder; — then,  as  more  or  less 
Their  speed  abated  or  their  strength  grew  dull, 

She  sunk  down  on  her  seat  by  slow  degrees. 

And  bow'd  her  throbbing  head  o'er  trembling  knees. 

Her  face  declined  and  was  unseen;  her  hair 
Fell  in  long  tresses  like  the  weeping  willow, 

Sweeping  the  marble  underneath  her  chair, 
Or  rather  sofa,  (for  it  was  all  pillow, 

A  low,  soft  ottoman,)  and  black  despair 
Stirr'd  up  and  down  her  bosom  like  a  billow, 

Which  rushes  to  some  shore  whose  shingles  check 

Its  further  course,  but  must  receive  its  wreck. 

Her  head  hung  down,  and  her  long  hair  in  stooping 
Conceal'd  her  features  better  than  a  veil: 

And  one  hand  o'er  the  ottoman  lay  drooping, 
White,  waxen,  and  as  alabaster  pale: 

Would  that  I  were  a  painter!  to  be  grouping 
All  that  a  poet  drags  into  detail! 

Oh  that  my  words  were  colors!  but  their  tints 

May  serve  perhaps  as  outlines  or  slight  hints. 


LOVE  AND  GLORY. 


0  Love!  O  Glory!  what  are  ye  who  fly 

Around  us  ever,  rarely  to  alight? 
There's  not  a  meteor  in  the  polar  sky 

Of  such  transcendent  and  more  fleeting  flight. 
Chill,  and  chain'd  to  cold  earth,  we  lift  on  high 

Our  eyes  in  search  of  either  lovely  light; 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  colors  they 
Assume,  then  leave  us  on  our  freezing  way. 


WARS. 

Oh  blood  and  thunder!  and  oh  blood  and  wounds  1 
These  are  but  vulgar  oaths,  as  you  may  deem. 

Too  gentle  reader!  and  most  shocking  sounds: 
And  so  they  are;  yet  thus  is  Glory's  dream 

Unriddled,  and  as  my  true  Muse  expounds 
At  present  such  things,  since  they  are  her  theme, 

So  be  they  her  inspirers!    Call  them  Mars, 

Bellona,  what  you  will — ^they  mean  but  wars. 

All  was  prepared— the  fire,  the  sword,  the  men 
To  wield  them  in  their  terrible  array. 

The  army,  like  a  lion  from  his  den, 
March'd  forth  with  nerve  and  sinews  bent  to  slay- 


r 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  61 

A  human  Hydra,  issuing  from  its  fen 

To  breathe  destruction  on  its  winding  way, 
Whose  heads  were  heroes,  which  cut  on  in  vain, 
Immediately  in  others  grew  again. 

History  can  only  take  things  in  the  gross; 

But  could  we  know  them  in  detail,  perchance 
In  balancing  the  profit  and  the  loss, 

War's  merit  it  by  no  means  might  enhance, 
To  waste  so  much  gold  for  a  little  dross, 

As  hath  been  done,  mere  conquest  to  advance. 
The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 
Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  seas  of  gore. 

And  why?  because  it  brings  self-approbation; 

Whereas  the  other,  after  all  its  glare. 
Shouts,  bridges,  arches,  pensions  from  a  nation, 

Which  (it  may  be)  has  not  much  left  to  spare, 
A  higher  title,  or  a  loftier  station, 

Though  they  may  make  Corruption  gape  or  stare, 
Yet  in  the  end,  except  in  Freedom's  battles. 
Are  nothing  but  a  child  of  Murder's  rattles. 

And  such  they  are, — and  such  they  will  be  found: 

Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
Whose  every  battlefield  is  holy  ground. 

Which  breathes  of  nations  saved,  not  worlds  undone. 
How  sweetly  on  the  ear  such  echoes  sound! 

While  the  mere  victor's  may  appall  or  stun 
The  servile  and  the  vain,  such  names  will  be 
A  watchword  till  the  future  shall  be  free. 


WELLINGTON. 


0  Wellington!  (or  *♦  Villainton  "—for  Fame 
Sounds  the  heroic  syllables  both  ways; 

France  could  not  even  conquer  your  great  name, 
But  punn'd  it  down  to  this  facetious  phrase — 

Beating  or  beaten  she  will  laugh  the  same). 
You  have  obtain'd  great  pensions  and  much  praise: 

Glory  like  yours  should  any  dare  gainsay. 

Humanity  would  rise,  and  thunder  ''  Nay!"* 

1  don't  think  that  you  used  Kinnaird  quite  well 
In  Marinet's  affair— in  fact,  'twas  shabby, 

And  like  some  other  things  won't  do  to  tell 
Upon  your  tomb  in  Westminster's  old  abbey. 

Upon  the  rest  'tis  not  worth  while  to  dwell. 
Such  tales  being  for  the  tea-hours  of  some  tabby; 

But  though  your  years  as  rnan  tend  fast  to  zero, 

In  fact  your  grace  is  still  but  a  young  hero. 

Though  Britain  owes  (and  pays  you  too)  so  much, 
Yet  Europe  doubtless  owes  you  greatly  more: 

You  have  repair'd  Legitimacy's  crutch, 
A  prop  not  quite  so  certain  as  before: 

♦  Query,  iVey /—Printer's  Devil. 


^^ 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

The  Spanish,  and  the  French,  as  well  as  Dutch, 

Have  seen  and  felt,  how  stronj^ly  you  restore; 

And  Waterloo  has  made  the  world  your  debtor, 

(I  wish  your  bards  would  sing  it  rather  better.) 

You  are  "the  best  of  cut-throats:" — do  not  start; 

The  phrase  is  Shakspeare's,  and  not  mtsapplied:- 
War's  a  brain-spattering,  windpipe-slitting  art, 

Unless  her  cause  by  nght  be  sanctifled. 
If  you  have  acted  once  a  generous  part, 

The  world,  not  the  world's  masters,  will  decide, 
And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  learn  who. 
Save  you  and  yours,  have  galn'd  by  Waterloo? 

I  am  no  flatterer — you've  supp'd  full  of  flattery: 
They  say  you  like  it  too — 'tis  no  great  wonder. 

He  whose  whole  life  has  been  assault  and  battery, 
At  last  may  get  a  little  tired  of  thunder; 

And  swallowing  eulogy  much  more  than  satire,  he 
May  like  being  praised  for  every  lucky  blunder, 

Call'd  **  Saviour  of  the  Nations  " — not  yet  saved, 

And  "Europe's  Liberator  " — stiU  enslaved.* 

I've  done.    Now  go  and  dine  from  off  the  plate 
Presented  by  the  prince  of  the  Brazils, 

And  send  the  sentinel  before  your  gate 
A  slice  or  two  from  your  luxurious  meals:t 

He  fought,  but  has  not  fed  so  well  of  late. 
Some  hunger,  too,  they  say  the  people  feels: — 

There  is  no  doubt  that  you  deserve  your  ration, 

But  pray  give  back  a  little  to  the  nation. 


PYRRHONISM. 


"  To  be,  or  not  to  be?"— Ere  I  decide, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  which  is  heinjj. 

'Tis  true  we  speculate  both  far  and  wide, 
And  deem,  because  we  see,  we  are  all-seeing: 

For  my  part,  I'll  enlist  on  neither  side, 
Until  I  see  both  sides  for  once  agreeing. 

For  me,  I  sometimes  think  that  life  is  death. 

Rather  than  life  a  mere  affair  of  breath. 

"  Que  scais-je?''   was  the  motto  of  Montaigne, 

As  also  of  the  first  academicians: 
That  all  is  dubious  which  man  may  attain, 

Was  one  of  their  most  favorite  positions. 

*  Vide  Speeches  in  Parliament,  after  battle  of  Waterloo. 

t  "I  at  this  time  got  a  post,  bein^  for  fatigue,  with  four  othe-s. 
We  were  sent  to  break  bisouit  and  make  a  mess  for  Lord  Welliiig- 
ton's  hounds.  I  was  ver}-  Ininsrry,  and  thought  it  a  good  job  at  the 
time,  as  we  pot  our  own  fill  while  we  broke  the  biscuit, — a  thing  I 
had  not  got  for  some  days.  When  thus  engaged,  the  Prodigal  Son 
was  never  once  out  of  my  mind;  and  I  sighed,  aa  I  fed  the  dogs,  over 
my  humble  situation  and  my  ruined  hopes." — Journal  of  a  Soldier 
of  t1u2  7\st  Regiment  during  the  War  in  Spain. 


•^K 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  687 

There  's  no  such  thinff  as  certainty,  that 's  plain, 

As  any  of  Mortalit)'''8  conditions; 
So  little  do  we  know  what  we're  about  in 
This  world,  I  doubt  if  doubt  itself  be  doubting. 

It  is  a  pleasant  voyage  perhaps  to  float. 

Like  Pyrrho,  on  a  sea  of  speculation; 
But  what  if  carrying  sail  capsize  the  boat? 

Your  wise  men  don't  know  much  of  navigation; 
And  swimming  long  in  the  abyss  of  thought 

Is  apt  to  tire:  a  calm  and  shallow  station 
Well  nigh  the  shore,  where  one  stoops  down  and  gathers 
Some  pretty  shell,  is  best  for  moderate  bathers. 


ENGLAND. 


I've  no  great  cause  to  love  that  spot  of  earth. 

Which  holds  what  might  leave  been  the  noblest  nation; 

But  though  I  owe  it  little  but  my  birth, 
I  feel  a  mix'd  regret  and  veneration 

For  its  decaying  fame  and  former  worth. 
Seven  years  (the  usual  term  of  transport  ation) 

Of  absence  lay  one's  old  resentments  level. 

When  a  man's  country  's  going  to  the  devil. 

Alasl  could  she  but  fully,  truly,  know 
How  her  great  name  is  now  throughout  abhorr'd; 

How  eager  all  the  earth  is  for  the  blow 

Which  shall  lay  bare  her  bosom  to  the  sword; 

How  all  the  nations  deem  her  their  worst  foe. 
That  worse  than  word  of  foes,  the  once  alGored 

False  friend,  who  held  out  freedom  to  mankind. 

And  now  would  chain  them,  to  the  very  mind; — 

Would  she  be  proud,  or  boast  herself  the  free. 
Who  is  but  first  of  slaves?    The  nations  are 

In  prison, — but  the  jailer,  what  is  he? 
No  less  a  victim  to  the  bolt  and  bar. 

Is  the  poor  privilege  to  turn  the  key 
Upon  the  captive,  freedom?    He's  as  far 

From  the  enjoyment  of  the  earth  and  air 

Who  watches  o'er  the  chain,  as  they  who  wear. 


BERKLEY. 

When  Bishop  Berkley  said  "  there  was  no  matter," 
And  proved  it — 'twas  no  matter  what  he  said: 

They  say  his  system  'tis  in  vain  to  batter, 
Too  subtle  for  the  airiest  human  head; 

And  yet  who  can  believe  it?    I  would  shatter 
Gladly  all  matters  down  to  stone  or  lead, 

Or  adamant,  to  find  the  world  a  spirit, 

And  wear  my  head,  denying  that  I  wear  it. 


■it 


*ih 


1 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

What  a  sublime  discovery  'twas  to  make  the 

Universe  universal  egotism. 
That  all 's  ideal — all  ourselveftf    I'll  stake  the 

World  (be  't  what  you  will)  that  that  '.s  no  schism. 
O  Doubt!— if  thou  be'st  Doubt,  for  which  some  take  thee, 

But  which  I  doubt  extremely — thou  sole  prism 
Of  the  Truth's  rays,  spoil  not  my  draught  of  spirit! 
Heaven's  brandy,  though  our  brain  can  hardly  bear  it. 

For  ever  and  anon  comes  Indigestion, 
(Not  the  most  '*  Dainty  Ariel,")  and  perplexes 

Our  soarings  with  another  sort  of  question: 
And  that  which  after  all  my  spirit  vexes, 

Is,  that  I  find  no  spot  where  man  can  rest  eye  on, 
Without  confusion  of  the  sorts  and  sexes. 

Of  beings,  stars,  and  this  unriddled  wonder. 

The  world,  which  at  the  worst 's  a  glorious  blunder. 


POETICAL  CHARACTERS. 

Sir  Walter  reign'd  before  me;  Moore  and  Campbell 
Before  and  after;  but  now  grown  more  holy. 

The  Muses  upon  Sion's  hill  must  ramble 
With  poets  almost  Clergymen,  or  wholly; 

And  Pegasus  has  a  psalmodic  amble 
Beneath  the  very  Reverend  Rowley  Powley, 

Who  shoes  the  glorious  animal  with  stilts, 

A  modern  Ancient  Pistol— by  the  hilts! 

Still  he  excels  that  artificial  hard 

Laborer  in  the  same  vineyard,  though  the  vine 
Yields  him  but  vinegar  for  his  rewaroT — 

That  neutralized  dull  Donis  of  the  Nine; 
That  swarthy  Sporus,  neither  man  or  bard: 

That  ox  of  verse,  who  plovghs  for  every  line: — 
Cambyses'  roaring  Romans  beat  at  least 
The  howling  Hebrews  of  Cybele's  priest. 

Then  there's  my  gentle  Euphues;  who,  they  say, 
Sets  up  for  being  a  sort  of  moral  nie  ; 

He'll  find  it  rather  difllcult  some  day 
To  turn  out  both,  or  either,  it  may  be. 

Some  persons  think  that  Coleridge  hath  the  sway; 
And  Wordsworth  has  supporters,  two  or  three; 

And  that  deep-mouth'd  Boeotian  "Savage  Landor" 

Has  taken  for  a  swan  rogue  Southey's  gander. 

John  Keats,  who  was  kill'd  off  by  one  critique, 
Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great, 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 
Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late. 

Much  as  they  mi^^ht  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 
Poor  fellow!  his  was  an  untoward  fate; 

'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  fiery  particle,* 

Should  let  itself  be  snuff' d  out  by  an  article. 

*  "  Divines  particulum  aurae." 


4 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

The  list  grows  long  of  live  and  dead  pretenders 
To  that  which  none  will  gain — or  none  will  know 

The  conqueror  at  least;  who,  ere  Time  renders 
His  last  award,  will  have  the  long  grass  grow 

Above  his  burnt-out  brain,  and  sapless  cinders. 
If  I  might  augur,  I  should  rate  but  low 

Their  chances;  they're  too  numerous,  like  the  thirty 

Mock  tyrants,  when  Rome's  annals  wax'd  but  dirty. 


A  SOT. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who,  after  a  survey 
Of  the  good  company,  can  win  a  comer, 

A  door  that's  in  or  boudoir  out  of  the  way, 
Where  he  may  fix  himself,  like  small  "Jack  Homer," 

And  let  the  Babel  round  run  as  it  may. 
And  look  on  as  a  mourner,  or  a  scorner, 

Or  an  approver,  or  a  mere  spectator, 

Yawning  a  little  as  the  night  grows  later. 


MONEY. 

Why  call  the  miser  miserableV  as 

I  said  before:  the  frugal  life  is  bis, 
Which  in  a  saint  or  cynic  ever  was 

The  theme  of  praise:  a  hermit  would  not  miss 
Canonization  for  the  selfsame  cause, — 

And  wherefore  blame  gaunt  wealth's  austerities? 
Because,  you'll  say,  nought  calls  for  such  a  trial; — 
Then  there  's  more  merit  in  his  self-denial. 

He  is  your  only  poet;  passions,  pure. 
And  sparkling  on  from  heap  to  heap,  displays 

Ibssess''d,  the  ore,  of  which  77iere  hopes  allure 
Nations  athwart  the  deep:  the  golden  raj'S 

Flash  up  in  ingots  from  the  mine  obscure: 
On  him  the  diamond  pours  its  brilliant  blaze; 

While  the  mild  emerald's  beam  shades  down  the  dies 

Of  other  stones,  to  soothe  the  miser's  eyes. 

The  lands  on  either  side  are  his:  the  ship 
From  Ceylon,  Inde,  or  far  Cathay,  unloads 

For  him  the  fragrant  produce  of  eg,ch  trip; 
Beneath  his  cars  of  Ceres  groan  the  roads, 

And  the  vine  blushes  like  Aurora's  lip; 
His  very  cellars  might  be  kings'  abodes; 

While  he,  despisins?  every  sensual  call. 

Commands — ^the  intellectual  lord  of  all. 

Perhaps  he  hath  great  projects  in  his  mind, 

To  build  a  college,  or  to  found  a  race. 
An  hospital,  a  church, — and  leave  behind 

Some  dome  surmounted  by  his  meagre  face. 
Perhaps  he  would  fain  liberate  mankind 

Even  with  the  very  ore  which  makes  them  base; 
Perhaps  he  would  be  wealthiest  of  his  nation. 
Or  revel  in  the  joys  of  calculation. 


^^ 


r 


4 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

But  whether  all,  or  each,  or  none  of  these 
Mav  be  the  hoarder's  principle  of  action, 

The  fool  will  call  such  mania  a  disease: — 
What  is  his  ovni?    Go — look  at  each  transaction, 

Wars,  revels,  love — do  these  bring  men  more  ease 
Than  the  mere  plodding  through  each  "vulgar 
fraction?" 

Or  do  they  benefit  mankind?    Lean  miserl 

Let  spendthrifts'  heirs  inquire  of  yours — who's  wiser? 

How  beauteous  are  rouleaus!    how  charming  chests 
Containing  ingots,  bags  of  dollars,  coins 

(Not  of  old  victors,  all  whose  heads  and  crests 
Weigh  not  the  thin  ore  where  their  visage  shines, 

But)  or  fine  unclipt  gold,  where  dully  rests 
Some  likeness,  which  the  glittering  cirque  confines, 

Of  modern,  reigning,  sterling,  stupid  stamp: — 

Yesl  ready  money  if  Aladdin's  lamp. 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove, — for  love 
Is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love:" — so  sings  the  bard; 

Which  it  were  rather  difficult  to  prove, 
(A  thing  with  poetry  in  general  hard.) 

Perhaps  there  may  be  something  in  "the  grove," 
At  least  it  rhymes  to  "  love:"  but  I'm  prepared 

To  doubt  (no  less  than  landlords  of  their  rental) 

If  "  courts  "  and  "  camps  "  be  quite  so  sentimental. 


THE  FORTUNE. 


How  all  the  needy  honorable  misters, 
Each  out-at-elbow  peer,  or  desperate  dandy, 

The  watchful  mothers,  and  the  careful  sisters, 
(Who,  by  the  by,  when  clever,  are  more  handy 

At  making  matches,  where  "  'tis  gold  that  glisters," 
Than  their  Im  relatives,)  like  flies  o'er  candy 

Buzz  round  "  the  Fortune  "  with  their  busy  battery, 

To  turn  her  head  with  waltzing  and  with  flattery  1 

Each  aunt,  each  cousin,  hath  her  speculation; 

Nay,  married  dames  will  now  and  then  discover 
Such  pure  disinterestedness  of  passion, 

I've  known  ttffem  court  an  heiress  for  their  lover. 
"  Tantaenel"    Such  the  virtues  of  high  station, 

Even  in  the  hopeful  Isle,  whose  outlet 's  Dover!" 
While  the  poor  rich  wretch,  object  of  these  cares, 
Has  cause  to  wish  her  sire  had  had  male  heirs. 

Some  are  soon  bagg'd,  and  some  reject  three  dozen. 

'Tis  fine  to  see  them  scattering  refusals 
And  wild  dismay  o'er  every  angry  cousin, 

(Friends  of  the  party,)  who  begin  accusals, 
Such  as—"  Unless  Miss  (Blank)  meant  to  have  chosen 

Poor  Frederick^hy  did  she  accord  perusals 
To  his  billets?     Why  waltz  with  him?    Why,  I  pray. 
Look  yea  last  night,  and  yet  say  no  to-day? 


-» 


'■ — ^ » 

EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  691 

"  Why?— Why?— Besides,  Fred  really  was  attached; 

'Twas  not  her  fortune — he  has  enough  without: 
The  time  will  come  she  '11  wish  that  she  had  snatch'd 

So  good  an  opportunity,  no  doubt:— 
But  the  old  Marchioness  some  plan  had  hatch'd, 

As  I'll  tell  Aurea  at  to-morrow's  rout: 
And  after  all  poor  Frederick  may  do  better — 
Pray,  did  you  see  her  answer  to  his  letter?" 

Smart  uniforms  and  sparkling  coronets 

Are  spum'd  in  turn,  until  her  turn  arrives. 
After  male  loss  of  time,  and  hearts,  and  bets 

Upon  the  sweepstakes  for  substantial  wives; 
And  when  at  last  the  pretty  creature  gets 

Some  gentleman,  who  fights,  or  writes,  or  drives, 
It  soothes  the  awkward  squad  of  the  rejected, 
To  find  how  very  badly  she  selected. 


QUIXOTISM. 


Rough  Johnson,  the  great  moralist,  professM, 

Right  honestly,  "  he  liked  an  honest  hater!" — 
The  only  truth  that  yet  has  been  confess'd 

Within  these  latest  thousand  yearsj  or  later. 
Perhaps  the  fine  old  fellow  spoke  in  jest: — 

For  my  part  I  am  but  a  mere  spectator. 
And  gaze  where'er  the  palace  or  the  hovel  is. 
Much  in  the  mode  of  Goethe's  Mephistopheles; 

But  neither  love  nor  hate  in  much  excess; 

Though  'twas  not  once  so.    If  I  sneer  sometimes, 
It  is  because  I  cannot  well  do  less, 

And  now  and  then  it  also  suits  my  rhymes. 
I  should  be  very  willing  to  redress 

Men's  wrongs,  and  rather  check  than  punish  crimes, 
Had  not  Cervantes,  in  that  too  true  tale 
Of  Quixote,  shown  how  all  such  efforts  fail. 

Of  all  tales  'tis  the  saddest — and  more  sad. 

Because  it  makes  us  smile:  his  hero's  right, 
And  still  pursues  the  right; — to  curb  the  bad 

His  only  object,  and  'gainst  odds  to  tight 
His  guerdon:  'tis  his  virtue  makes  him  madi 

But  his  adventures  form  a  sorry  sight; — 
A  sorrier  still  is  the  great  moral  taught 
By  that  real  epic  unto  all  who  have  thought. 

Redressing  injury,  revenging  wrong. 

To  aid  the  damsel  and  destroy  the  caitiff; 
Opposing  singly  the  united  strong. 

From  foreign  yoke  to  free  the  helpless  native: — 
Alas!  must  noblest  views,  like  an  old  song, 

Be  for  mere  fancy's  sport  a  theme  creative, 
A  jest,  a  riddle,  Fame  through  thick  and  thin  soughtl 
And  Socrates  himself  but  Wisdom's  Quixote? 

**- ^ 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Cervantes  smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away; 

A  single  laugh  demolish'd  the  right  arm 
Of  his  own  country; — seldom  since  that  day 

Has  Spain  had  heroes.    While  Romance  could  charm, 
The  world  gave  ground  before  her  bright  array; 

And  therefore  have  his  volumes  done  such  harm, 
That  all  their  glory,  as  a  composition, 
Was  dearly  purchased  by  his  land's  perdition. 


NORMAN  ABBEY. 


To  Norman  Abbey  whirl 'd  the  noble  pair, — 

An  old,  old  monastery  once,  and  now. 
Still  older  mansion, — of  a  rich  and  rare 

Mix'd  Gothic,  such  as  artists  all  allow 
Few  specimens  yet  left  us  can  compare 

Withal:  it  lies  perhaps  a  little  low. 
Because  the  monks  preferr'd  a  hill  behind. 
To  shelter  their  devotion  from  the  wind. 

It  stood  embosom'd  in  a  happy  valley, 
Crown'd  by  high  woodlands,  where  the  Druid  oak 

Stood  like  Caractacus  in  act  to  rally 
His  host,  with  broad  arms  'gainst  the  thunder  stroke; 

And  from  beneath  his  boughs  were  seen  to  sally 
The  dappled  foresters — as  day  awoke, 

The  branching  stag  swept  down  with  all  his  herd, 

To  quaif  a  brook  which  murmur'd  like  a  bird. 

Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 
Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By  a  river,  which  its  soften'd  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 

Around:  the  Wildfowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed: 

The  woods  sloped  downwards  to  its  brink,  and  stood 

With  their  green  faces  fix'd  upon  the  flood. 

Its  outlet  dash'd  into  a  deep  cascade, 
Sparkling  with  foam,  until  again  subsiding. 

Its  shriller  echoes — ^like  an  infant  made 
Quiet — sank  into  softer  ripples,  gliding 

Into  a  rivulet;  and  thus  allay'd, 
Pursued  its  course,  now  gleaming,  and  now  hiding 

Its  windings  through  the  woods;  now  clear,  now  blue, 

According  as  the  skies  their  shadows  threw. 

A  glorious  remnant  of  the  Gothic  pile 

(While  yet  the  church  was  Rome's)  stood  half  apart 
In  a  grand  arch,  which  once  screen'd  many  an  aisle. 

These  last  had  disappear'd — a  loss  to  art: 
The  first  yet  frown'd  superbly  o'er  the  soil, 

And  kindled  feelings  in  the  roughest  heart. 
Which  moum'd  the  power  of  time's  or  tempest's  march. 
In  gazing  on  that  venerable  arch. 


■Ht 


4 


•IK 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  61 

Within  a  niclie,  nigh  to  its  pinnacle, 

Twelve  saints  had  once  stood  sanctified  in  stone; 
But  these  had  fallen,  not  when  the  friars  fell, 

But  in  the  war  which  struck  Charles  from  his  throne, 
When  each  house  was  a  fortalice — ^as  tell 

The  annals  of  full  many  a  line  undone, — 
The  gallant  cavaliers,  who  fought  in  vain 
For  those  who  knew  not  to  resign  or  reign. 

But  in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  crown'd, 
The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-bom  Child, 

With  her  Son  in  her  blessed  arms  look'd  round. 
Spared  by  some  chance  when  all  beside  was  spoil'd; 

She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground. 
This  may  be  superstition,  weak  or  wild, 

But  even  the  faintest  relics  of  a  shrine 

Of  any  worship  wake  some  thoughts  divine. 

A  mighty  window,  hollow  in  the  centre, 

Shorn  of  its  glass  of  thousand  colorings, 
Through  which  the  deepen'd  glories  once  could  enter, 

Streaming  from  off  the  sun  like  seraph's  wings, 
Now  yawns  all  desolate:  now  loud,  now  fainter, 

The  gale  sweeps  through  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 
The  owl  his  anthem,  where  the  silenced  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quench'd  like  fire. 

But  In  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  when 
The  wind  is  wing'd  from  one  point  of  heaven, 

There  moans  a  strange  unearthly  sound,  which  then 
Is  musical — a  dying  accent  driven  » 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 
Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 

Back  to  the  night  wind  by  the  waterfall. 

And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall: 

Others,  that  some  original  shape,  or  form 
Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 

(Though  less  than  that  of  Memnon's  statue,  warm 
In  Egypt's  rays,  to  harp  at  a  fix'd  hour) 

To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm 
Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  over  tree  or  tower; 

The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve;  but  such 

The  fact:  I've  heard  it, — once,  perhaps,  too  much. 

Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd, 
Symmetrical,  but  deck'd  with  carvings  quaint — 

Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade. 
And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint: 

The  spring  gush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite  made, 
And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 

Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 

Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles. 

The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 
With  more  of  the  monastic  than  has  been 

Elsewhere  preserved:  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 
The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  weeu: 


ih 


004  EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 

Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene; 
The  rest  had  been  reform'd,  replaced,  or  sunk, 
And  spoke  more  of  the  baron  than  the  monk. 
• 

Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  join'd 

By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Mi^ht  shock  a  connoisseur;  but  when  combined, 

1  orm'd  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 

At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  are  in  their  hearts; 
We  gaze  upon  a  giant  for  his  stature. 
Nor  judge  at  first  if  all  be  true  to  nature. 

Steel  barons,  molten  the  next  generation 
To  silken  rows  of  gay  and  garter'd  earls. 

Glanced  from  the  wails  in  goodly  preservation: 
And  Lady  Marys  blooming  into  girls. 

With  fair  long  locks,  had  also  kept  their  station: 
And  countesses  mature  in  robes  and  pearls; 

Also  some  beauties  of  Sir  Peter  Lely, 

Whose  drapery  hints  we  may  admire  them  freely. 

Judges  in  very  formidable  ermine 

Were  there,  with  brows  that  did  not  much  invite 
The  accused  to  think  their  lordships  would  determine 

His  cause  by  leaning  much  from  might  to  right: 
Bishops,  who  had  not  left  a  single  sermon; 

Attorneys-general;  awful  to  the  sight. 
As  hinting  more  (unless  our  judgments  warp  us) 
Of  the  "  Star  Chamber  "  than  of""  Habeas  Corpus." 

Generals,  some  all  in  armor,  of  the  old 
And  iron  time,  ere  lead  had  ta'en  the  lead, 

Others  in  wigs  of  Marlborough's  martial  fold, 
Huger  than  twelve  of  our  degenerate  breed: 

Lordlings,  with  staves  of  white  or  keys  of  gold: 
Nimrods,  whose  canvas  scarce  contain'd  the  steed; 

And  here  and  there  some  stem  high  patriot  stood. 

Who  could  not  get  the  place  for  which  he  sued. 

But  ever  and  anon,  to  soothe  your  vision, 
Fatigued  with  these  hereditary  glories, 

There  rose  a  Carlo  Dolce  or  a  Titian, 
Or  wilder  group  of  savage  Salvatore's:* 

Here  danced  Albano's  boys,  and  here  the  sea  shone 
In  Vernet's  ocean  lights;  and  there  the  stories 

Of  martyrs  awed,  as  Spagnoletto  tainted 

His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted. 

Here  sweetly  spread  a  landscape  of  Lorraine; 

There  Rembrandt  made  his  darkness  equal  light, 
Or  gloomy  Caravaggio's  gloomier  stain 

Bronzed  o'er  some  lean  and  stoic  anchorite: — 

♦  Salvator  Rosa. 


-t 


^K 


HJ- 


■IK 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

But,  lo!  a  Teniers  wooes,  and  not  in  vain, 

Your  eyes  to  revel  in  a  livelier  sight: 
His  bell-mouth 'd  goblet  make  me  feel  quite  Danish* 
Or  Dutch  with  thirst — What,  ho!  a  liask  of  Rhenish. 


695 


THE  SUICIDE. 

A  sleep  without  dreams,  after  a  rough  day 

Of  toil,  is  what  we  covet  most;  and  yet 
How  clay  shrinks  back  from  more  quiescent  clay! 

The  very  Suicide  that  pays  his  debt 
At  once  without  instalments  (an  old  way 

Of  paying  debts,  which  creditors  regret) 
Lets  out  impatiently  his  rushing  breath. 
Less  from  disgust  of  life  than  dread  of  death. 

'Tis  round  him,  near  him,  here,  there,  everywhere. 
And  there 's  a  courage  which  grows  out  of  fear. 

Perhaps  of  all  most  desperate,  which  will  dare 
The  worst  to  know  it: — when  the  mountains  rear 

Their  peaks  beneath  your  human  foot,  and  there 
You  look  down  o'er  the  precipice,  and  drear 

The  gulf  of  rock  yawns, — you  can't  gaze  a  minute. 

Without  an  awful  wish  to  plunge  within  it. 

'Tis  true,  you  don't,  but,  pale  and  struck  with  terror. 

Retire:  but  look  into  your  past  impression! 
And  you  will  find,  though  shuddering  at  the  mirror 
Of  your  own  thoughts,  in  all  their  self-confession, 
The  lurking  bias,  be  it  truth  or  error, 
•  To  the  unknown;  a  secret  prepossession. 
To  plunge  with  all  your  fears — but  where?    You  know  not. 
And  that 's  the  reason  why  you  do-^-or  do  not. 


MOTIVES. 

I  hate  a  motive,  like  a  lingering  bottle 

Which  with  the  landlord  makes  too  long  a  stand, 
Leaving  all  claretless  the  unmoisten'd  throttle. 

Especially  with  politics  on  hand; 
I  hate  it,  as  I  hate  a  drove  of  cattle. 

Who  whirl  the  dust  as  simooms  whirl  the  sand; 
I  hate  it  as  I  hate  an  argument, 
A  laureate's  ode,  or  servile  peer's  "content." 

'Tis  sad  to  hack  into  the  roots  of  things, 

They  are  so  much  intertwisted  with  the  earth; 

So  that  the  branch  a  goodly  verdure  flings, 
I  reck  not  if  an  acorn  gave  it  birth. 


*  Iflerrnot,  "your Dane' 
exquisite  in  their  drinking.' 


is  one  of  lago's  catalogue  of  nations 


+ 


4 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

To  trace  all  actions  to  their  secret  springs 

Would  make  indeed  some  melancholy  mirth; 
But  this  is  not  at  present  my  concern, 
And  I  refer  you  to  wise  Oxenstiem.'* 


TRUTH. 

'Tis  strange,  but  true;  for  truth  is  always  strange; 

Stranger  than  fiction:  if  it  could  be  told, 
How  much  would  novels  gain  by  the  exchange! 

How  differently  the  world  would  men  behold! 
How  oft  would  vice  and  virtue  places  change! 

The  new  world  would  be  nothing  to  the  old, 
If  some  Columbus  of  the  moral  seas 
Would  show  mankind  their  souls'  antipodes. 

What  "  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle  "  then 
Would  be  discover' d  in  the  human  soul! 

What  icebergs  in  the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 
With  self-love  in  the  centre  as  their  pole! 

What  Anthropophagi  are  nine  of  ten 
Of  those  who  hold  the  kingdoms  in  control! 

Were  things  but  only  call'd  by  their  right  name, 

Caesar  himself  would  be  ashamed  of  fame. 


VANITY. 

The  evaporation  of  a  joyous  day 
Is  like  the  last  glass  of  champagne,  without 

The  foam  which  made  its  virgin  bumper  gay; 
Or  like  a  system  coupled  with  a  doubt; 

Or  like  a  soda-bottle  when  its  spray 
Has  sparkled  and  let  half  its  spirit  out; 

Or  like  a  billow  left  by  storms  behind, 

Without  the  animation  of  the  wind; 

Or  like  an  opiate,  which  brings  troubled  rest, 
Or  none;  or  like — like  nothing  that  I  know 

Except  itself; — such  is  the  human  breast; 
A  thing,  of  which  similitudes  can  show 

No  real  likeness, — like  the  old  Tyrian  vest 
Dyed  purple,  none  at  present  can  tell  how, 

If  from  a  shell-fish  or  from  cochineal.t 

So  perish  every  tyrant's  robe  piecemeal! 

But  next  to  dressing  for  a  rout  or  ball. 
Undressing  is  a  woe;  our  robe-de-chambre 
.  May  sit  like  that  of  Nessus,  and  recall 

Thoughts  quite  as  yellow,  but  less  clear  than  amber. 

*  The  famous  Chancellor  Oxenstiem  said  to  his  pon,  on  the  latter 
expressinfr  liis. surprise  upon  the  ^leat  effects  arising  from  petty 
causes  in  the  presumed  mystery  of  polities:  "You  see  by  this,  my 
son,  with  how  little  wisdom  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  gov- 
erned." 

t  The  composition  of  the  old  Tyrian  purple— whether  from  a 
shell-fish,  or  from  cochineal,  or  from  kermes,  is  still  an  article  of 
dispute;  and  even  its  color— some  say  purple,  othera  scarlet:  I  say 
notniug. 


*it 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN.  697 

Titus  exclaim'd,  "  I've  lost  a  day!"    Of  all 

The  nights  and  days  most  people  can  remember, 
(I  have  had  of  both,  some  not  to  be  disdain'd,) 
I  wisli  they'd  state  how  many  they  have  gain'd. 


ADELINE'S  SONG. 

THE  BLACK  FRIAB. 
1. 

Beware!  beware!  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayer  in  the  midnight  air, 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

Would  not  be  driven  away. 

2. 

Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls  if  they  said  nay; 
A  monk  remain'd  unchased,  unchain'd, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay. 
For  he 's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he 's  seen  in  the  church, 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day. 


And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say; 
But  still  with  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage-bed  of  their  lords,  'tis  said. 

He  flits  on  the  bridal  eve; 
And  'tis  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death 

He  comes — but  not  to  grieve. 

4. 

When  an  heir  is  born,  he  's  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall.  ■*- 

His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'Tis  shadow'd  by  his  cowl: 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between. 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

5. 

But  beware!  beware!  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  Church's  heir, 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 

* *- 


^ir 


EXTRACTS  FROM  DON  JUAN. 

Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 
•  But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night; 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal, 
To  question  that  friar's  right. 

6. 
Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he'll  say  nought  to  you: 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  grammercyl  for  the  Black  Friar; 

Heaven  sain  him!  fair  or  foul, 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayer, 

Let  ours  be  for  his  eoul. 


Ht 


